


Games of Rome

by JPKenwood



Series: Dominus [2]
Category: Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF, Fantasy historical, Original Work
Genre: Ancient Rome, Character Death, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F Implied or Off-Stage, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/F Implied or Off-stage, M/M, Master/Slave, Masturbation, Orgies, Power Dynamics, Sex Toys, Treachery, Violence, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-02-24 15:09:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 43,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2585969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JPKenwood/pseuds/JPKenwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Roman general acquires a new sex slave—a feisty Dacian prince. A historical fantasy saga with sex, plot twists, angst, humor, love and intrigue. While nearly all details are historically accurate and the story is tied to major historical events and prevailing cultural attitudes during the reign of the Emperor Trajan (AD 98-117), the tale is entirely fictional and the dialogue is deliberately modern in flavor. This is the second installment of a five part saga.</p><p>For information about this series, character profiles, story snippets and more, check out the <b><i>Dominus</i></b> blog at: http://jpkenwood.com</p><p>© 2014 and © 2015 JP Kenwood, All rights reserved</p><p><b>Come and discuss the insanity of <i>Games of Rome</i> - more snark, more sex, more lies, more tears... </b> http://jpkenwood.com/2015/11/21/gor-discussion-post/</p><p>The funny, lusty, and angst-filled saga of Gaius and Allerix continues in <b><i>Games of Rome</i></b>. These are not stand alone stories but are part of a series. <b><i>Games of Rome</i></b> contains MAJOR SPOILERS for <b><i>Dominus</i></b>.   :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In book 2, **_Games of Rome_** , Gaius Fabius returns to Rome to confront Trajan and the imperial court as he seeks justice for his former lover. Plots are hatched, restless spirits haunt, and the mystery surrounding a horrific murder grows messier. Meanwhile, Allerix plans his own revenge as he battles his desires for his seductive Roman master. Max, Nic and Simon adjust to the changing circumstances when more slaves join them down at the villa in Campania. Several new original and historical characters enter the wicked saga, including Gaius’s paternal grandmother, the historian Tacitus, and the lawyer/administrator, Pliny the Younger.

                                                                                                  **GAMES OF ROME**

                                                                                      © 2014 JP Kenwood, All rights reserved

                                                                                              

**CHAPTER 1**

 

**_AD 107_ **

**_Lucius Petronius’s house on the Quirinal Hill, Rome_ **

Gaius stood on the street in front of his former lover’s home; his fists were clenched and his feet planted in a wide-legged stance. He was ready for battle.

A crow perched on the ridgepole of the tiled roof flapped its wings and squawked, as if mocking him. Gaius instinctively looked up and saw it.

Them.

Two torches in iron brackets attached high on the wall.

They were unlit. Extinguished. Their light would never again be used by Lucius to signal that his wife had left the house and his gorgeous body was free to defile. No more sneaking in for those risky but satiating afternoon fucks. No more sucking and kissing and rimming in the baths. No more forbidden games in the garden. Gaius had made sure of that himself.

 _“Put an end to this dishonorable dalliance with Petronius Celsus!”_ The emperor’s command during that dinner party at the palace was clear and direct. And so Gaius obeyed.

He’d broken off the illicit affair, like a dutiful auxiliary soldier following orders.

He was little more than a fucking coward.

And now the massive oak door through which Gaius had passed so often loomed before him, taunting him with its indifferent permanence. Heavy pine garlands drooped low, obscuring the white marble doorframe, their branches threaded with wilted red roses and the black ribbons of death. As he raised his fist to knock, a searing pain sliced through his chest.

Lucius had deserted _him_.

Gaius slowly lowered his arm and massaged his aching brow with his other hand.

Before making this dreaded climb up to the top of the Quirinal hill, he’d ascended the Capitoline slope and sworn an oath before the colossal enthroned statue of almighty Jupiter. An oath of vengeance.

But now was not the time for war.

It was time to confront the awful truth.

Time to say farewell.

“Commander? Are you all right, sir?”

“Announce our arrival, Maximus.”

Gaius unfurled his fists, turned away from the door, and gazed down the length of the paved street. The painted plaster walls of the neighboring posh homes and the colorful flowers cascading down from their high terraces seemed less vibrant than they had in the past. At least this cruel city had the fucking decency to not shine quite as bright.

He closed his eyes.

Lucius Petronius was dead.

Who was to blame? Those rapacious spies from the palace, those envious bastards in the Senate? Of course, there was Luc’s greedy widow, Aurelia, to add to the long list of suspects. And, gods forbid, what if his fellow ward—his little brother, his Greekling—was involved in this heinous crime?

Gaius rubbed his face as he exhaled.

“Varius, take two men to the back gate and make damn sure no one leaves this estate without my fucking permission.”

“Yes, Commander.”

After Max lifted and released the stout iron knocker three times, the door slowly opened, creaking on its metal hinges. A guard with a sweaty brow and a familiar face nodded and welcomed them into the vestibule.

“Greetings, Commander Fabius. We’ve been anticipating your visit, sir.”

Gaius patted the man on the shoulder. “Stay here—all of you.”

He left Maximus and the veteran soldiers behind in the entrance hall and walked alone down the dimly lit, foreboding corridor that led to the atrium.

In there, he would find Luc’s corpse. Washed and dressed in a formal crimson-striped toga, his body would be recumbent on an elevated funerary couch, his feet pointed toward the street. A golden crown of laurel would encircle Luc’s dark hair, the coin to pay the ferryman of Hades already tucked in his mouth. Tall candelabra would stand at the corners of the couch, the air thick with the pungent smoke of fragrant herbs burning in bronze braziers. That once handsome face would be ghostly pale, those bright grey-blue eyes closed for eternity.

Lucius was dead.

But where was the smell of burning herbs? Where was that unmistakable stench that no amount of incense could mask?

Gaius paused to sniff the air. Nothing. He quickened his pace until he was jogging over the threshold to the stately atrium.

But the hall was empty. No couch, no candelabra, no corpse.

“What is the meaning of this?” Every word was a struggle, as if the wind had been knocked out of him. “Where—where is Lucius?”

“I’m afraid you’re too late, Commander.”

Draped in black mourning robes, she stood off to the side with her arms crossed and her right hip cocked, a satisfied sneer twisting her severe features.

“What the fuck did you…?” His voice cracked. “Where is Lucius, Aurelia?”

“We burned his corpse in Mars’ field just yesterday. The court granted permission, the omens were favorable, and the kindling lit well. The gods seemed quite pleased.”

Biting down hard on his lower lip, Gaius collapsed against one of the massive columns that bordered the shallow pool of water in the center of the atrium. “He’s gone.”

“Yes, he’s gone. And you, Gaius Fabius, failed to arrive in time to bid farewell to your dearest friend.”

“We traveled from Campania as quickly as possible, but several roads were washed out and impassable. I hadn’t anticipated that you’d have the bloody audacity to complete his rites before I returned to Rome.”

“I postponed the funeral for as long as possible, Commander Fabius. His body had been here in the atrium for nine long days. The summer’s heat and dampness took their toll, I’m afraid. You should know that I consulted with Empress Plotina on the matter of his funeral.”

With a grimace, Aurelia inhaled through her pointy nose. “I’ve had the slaves ventilate this room with palm leaves all morning but the fetor of decay still lingers, doesn’t it?”

Gaius dug his fingernails through the fabric of his tunic until he felt twinges of pain in his thighs. How easy it would be to simply wrap one hand around her bony neck and snap it.

Aurelia twirled the fringed edge of her robe as she sauntered over to stand next to him. “The funeral procession through the Forum was magnificent. Members of the Senate bore the gilded bier on their shoulders and our consul, Minicius, delivered a laudatory eulogy at the Rostra. I hired the most renowned undertaker in Rome to arrange the details: twenty-four professional mourners and a crew of talented trumpeters. We sacrificed a bull _and_ a sheep in addition to the pig. No expense was spared and the populace was regaled with a generous feast. The entire city will remember my devotion to my dear deceased husband for many summers to come.”

The smugness on her face morphed to fear as Gaius took two steps towards her.

“If you had anything to do with this.” Gaius circled her before he stopped, his lips mere inches from Aurelia’s wide terrified eyes. “If you were involved in Luc’s murder, Aurelia, I will not stop until your corpse crisps in the flames of a pyre of rotted wood.”

“I had no part whatsoever in Lucius’s death! I loved my husband. But you don’t believe...”

“What I fucking believe isn’t relevant. Not legally. The magistrates will determine guilt or innocence. Tell me—have you also had the gall to unseal his will?”

“Commander, I’m fully aware that the disclosure of my late husband’s final testament requires all six witnesses to be present. Lucius’s brother, Titus, boarded a ship at Piraeus. He’s on his way to the capital from Greece and, if the winds are favorable, he should arrive soon. My late husband’s youngest brother is already here in the capital. Gallus attended the rites and was most benevolent to me.” Aurelia swallowed hard and continued. “And you are the executor of Lucius’s testament. The magistrates would never unseal his will without your consent.”

Gaius smiled although his eyes remained cold and hard. At least she’d had the sense to abide by the inheritance laws. He stepped back and held out his hand.

“Give me his ring. It’s mine to safeguard until his final testament is read before the witnesses and the people of Rome. Perhaps, if the gods have any fucking sense, he will have left you nothing save the rags on your back.”

“My husband was noble and generous; he would never...” Aurelia coughed softly into her fist before stammering. “Did—did Lucius reveal his bequests to you?”

He gritted his teeth at her stall tactic. “Surrender Luc’s fucking ring. Now!”

Aurelia scurried over to the bronze chest that sat in one corner of the atrium and retrieved the sacred token of Lucius’s identity and judicial rank— his unique gold signet ring decorated with an oak leaf.

“I pray it curses you as it did him.” She pressed the ring into Gaius’s open palm.

Just as Gaius closed his fingers around the gold band, a boisterous commotion erupted in one of the corridors off to the side of the hall. From the shadows, Varius hauled a man into the center of the atrium. The fellow flailed and pulled out of the veteran’s grasp.

Gaius slipped Luc’s large ring onto his middle finger. “Varius, my good man, who do we have here then?”

“We found this gentleman hiding by the back portal, Commander. It seems that he might have been trying to leave the premises undetected.”

“Sneaking about like a sewer rat?” Gaius grabbed the man’s clean-shaven chin to get a better look at his pockmarked face. “Ah, it is you, Victorinus. I thought that I recognized you. Why, for shit’s sake, has a member of the emperor’s guard—a praetorian of junior rank, I might add—sequestered his sorry arse by the back exit of the home of Lucius Petronius?”

“I...”

“Yes?”

“I’m—I’m on assignment. I was told to guard the grieving widow, Commander Fabius.”

“Dressed in commoner’s clothing?”

“I was ordered to be, well, furtive. Sir.”

“Were you?” Gaius pointed at Aurelia. “Are you telling me that you were instructed to leave the palace to protect this wretch?”

“Yes, sir.”

Gaius strolled over to Varius and propped his arm on his veteran’s shoulder. “I’m not sure that I believe this far-fetched tale. What do you think, Varius?

“I’ve never known a praetorian to be charged with protecting a citizen, Commander. Discreetly or otherwise.”

“Neither have I.” Gaius crossed his arms and sneered. “May I assume that Emperor Trajan will corroborate your incredible claim, Victorinus?”

“The praetorian prefect gave the order, not the emperor.” Victorinus glanced at Aurelia and cleared his throat. “Sir.”

“The Prefect gave the order? I must remember to thank our most thoughtful Attianus when I next see him at the palace. Varius, escort our guest to the front door for a proper departure. I wish you good health, Victorinus.”

The guard nodded sheepishly. “Farewell, Commander Fabius.”

As Varius shoved the smaller man towards the exit, Gaius shook his head. Shit, these latest praetorian recruits were fucking imbecilic, the whole lot of them. And the prefect of the imperial bodyguard, Attianus, was a despicable, sycophantic snake.

“Commander?”

“Yes, Maximus?”

“Sir, my apologies for the interruption, but...” Max whispered into Gaius’s left ear. “Bryaxis, sir. Where is Bryaxis?”

“Good question.” Gaius mumbled and narrowed his eyes before he thundered over to Aurelia and grabbed her by the folds of her black dress. “What have you done with the Caledonian slave?”

“What?” She squeaked.

“Luc’s favorite, Bryaxis. Where is he?”

“Oh, that insolent slut. It dared to speak its mind at Lucius’s deathbed, so I had it beaten and locked in the library. That was quite a while past. It may be dead.” She raised her eyebrows and shrugged. “I believe I might have forgotten to feed it.”

“That slut is under my guardianship now, so you’d better pray that he’s not dead.”

“Your guardianship?”

“Lucius and I signed documents, Aurelia—legal and binding. I’m now the guardian of his personal slaves until his will is read, and I had better fucking find them all alive, woman.”

Gaius turned to instruct his veterans when he noticed Max staring at the floor, his strong arms hanging limp at his sides. Max and Bry had been close once.

Not lovers, though they knew every inch of each other’s bodies.

They’d been more akin to brothers.

“Maximus?”

Max looked up, and tears rolled down his high cheekbones.

“Collect yourself and follow me to the library.”

Max wiped his face. “Yes, sir.”

As they walked down the passageway, Max lingered two steps behind his patron.

“Maximus, I will see to it that he receives a proper burial.”

After a moment of silence, Max answered, “When he was a child back in Caledonia, Bry survived far worse than a flogging and a few days without food, sir.”

Gaius stopped, turned around, and reached up to brush the back of his hand over Max’s jaw. “You two shared much. I will take care of Bryaxis, no matter what his condition.”

“Bryaxis is alive, sir. He’s strong.”

Gaius flashed a weak smile. Max’s loyalty to those he loved never wavered, did it?

“I do hope that you’re right, but do not mistake my intentions.”

“Commander?”

“I will do what I must, whether he’s alive or dead, but not because of any affection for Bryaxis. I don’t much care for that arrogant, spoiled whore. I never have. I will fulfill my duties because Lucius and I swore an oath many years ago to protect each other’s families. The documents were designed to give each of us the necessary legal authority during those days before our respective testaments were unsealed. I will protect Bryaxis because it is my duty.”

Gaius gnawed on the inside of his cheek and looked away.

“I’d suggested the contract to Lucius, since odds were I’d die before him. I needed to know that my family—that you and the boys and Zoe—that you all would be protected after my death.”

Gaius inhaled deeply to ease the ache in his chest and whispered, “Come. Let’s find Bryaxis.”

“Yes, sir.”

The library was located off a grand corridor on the western side of the estate. It was a large square room with enormous windows and cupboards stuffed with correspondence, accounts and legal records. The library had been Luc’s pride and joy, his oasis from the political tempests of the courts. And it was the perfect private place for a quick fuck over a table. Gaius knew every piece of furniture in that damn room.

When they arrived, the doors were secured with a thick chain and a sturdy iron lock. The entrance looked more like a prison than a sanctuary for study or secret afternoon trysts.

Gaius gripped the chain with both hand and rattled the doors. “Bryaxis! Answer me, slave!”

No sound.

“There’s no time to persuade our uncooperative Aurelia to hand over the key, assuming she even knows where the fuck it is. Go find something to remove this chain, Maximus.”

After Max ran off in the direction of the slaves’ quarters, Gaius leaned on the door, his forehead pressed against his raised forearm. He slapped the wood panel with his palm and yelled. “Bryaxis!”

The muffled rumble of thunder shook the walls. Another violent summer storm was swooping down on the city.

“Bryaxis, if you can hear me, know that Lucius has not abandoned you.”

Soft, high-pitched cries drifted through the dark corridor to Gaius’s right. A flash of lightning momentarily brightened the hallway, quickly followed a louder thunderous boom.

“Commander Fabius?” She whimpered.

Euphronia trembled as she rocked back and forth, tears streaking her full face, her bright hair a mess, and her arms wrapped tightly beneath her sagging breasts. By the gods, the woman looked as though she might faint. “I knew—I knew that you’d save us, sir. I prayed to the goddess every morning and night.”

Gaius rushed over and embraced her; he buried his face in her disheveled curls and inhaled the savory scents of the kitchen.

“Euphronia, are you all right?”

“I—I am alive.” She nodded towards the library door. “That evil woman locked Bryaxis in there after Dominus died. I managed to smuggle in some water for the lad on the second day. She discovered my disobedience and had me caned.”

“She did what?”

Euphronia paused to catch her breath. “I heard—we all heard a terrible scream yesterday at dawn before the funeral. Oh, my great goddess! What did she do to Bryaxis? He’s never hurt her. My poor boy has never injured anyone.” She beat her pudgy hands against Gaius’s chest in desperation.

“Hush, Euphronia.” He grabbed her wrists, gently but firm. “Maximus will be back any moment with something to break the chain. Be strong for me—for Lucius. Are you listening to me?”

Euphronia took a cleansing breath as she pushed a few damp strands of hair off of her face and stood a bit straighter. “Yes, Commander.”

“You’re under my protection now. Lucius and I made arrangements long ago. As soon as we get Bryaxis out of there, we’re leaving.”

“Dominus showed me the documents, sir. But…” Euphronia wiped her eyes. “I can’t leave. I’ve lived here nearly all my life. This house is my home—it’s where I watched our three young mischievous masters grow into honorable, fine men. So many memories…”

“Look at me.” He gently lifted her face. “Lucius Petronius is gone. There’s no master here to protect you now. Your home—Bryaxis’ home—is with my family until Lucius’s testament is unsealed.”

Euphronia sucked in her plump lips before nodding. “Yes, sir—but what about the child? What will happen to Dominus’s daughter?”

Gaius blinked and swallowed.

Fuck.

“I don’t know. As soon as Titus Petronius arrives from Greece, Lucius’s testament will be read in the Julian basilica before the inheritance magistrates. The custody of Petronia and the ownership of this estate will be known then.”

Their moment of solemn silence was broken by Max’s holler.

“Commander!” Max came charging down the corridor, huffing and puffing, a gardener’s axe in his hand.

“Break the chain, Maximus.”

After two blows, the chain crashed to the floor.

“Euphronia, fetch some broth from the kitchen.”

“Sir?”

“Now, woman.”

After she’d hastened off, Max asked. “Do you believe that he’s alive, sir?”

“From what Euphronia told me, Bryaxis was alive yesterday morning. He may no longer be and, if that’s the case, I don’t want her to see whatever we find. Remain here and make sure that she doesn’t enter until I give the word. Understood?”

“Yes, Commander.”

Gaius pushed the door open and stepped inside the library. It was pitch black and, like a field after battle, the air reeked of urine and blood.

“Bryaxis? Where are you?”

Feeling his way from a table to the cupboard to another table, Gaius padded over towards the windows to open the shutters when his left foot bumped against a lump on the floor.

“Shit.”

He carefully stepped over it and opened the shutters wide. The heavy, grey-green clouds that filled the sky were menacing, but the impending downpour hadn’t yet begun to fall. Faint light crept into the library, enough for Gaius to see Bryaxis curled up in a ball on floor, unconscious and naked. A puddle of dark blood stained the floor near the slave’s bent legs.

“Bryaxis.” He whispered and crouched down, as another flash of lightning lit the space. The slave was breathing—shallow and labored, but he was breathing. Gaius gently rolled him over on his back. A bloody mess of bandages covered Bry’s groin.

Gaius lowered his head and looked away. “Dear gods.”

Another crash of thunder followed by another flash of lightning.

“Commander?” Max’s normally strong voice was barely audible.

“I told you to stand by the door, Maximus.”

Gaius pushed the fringe away from Bry’s face and brushed his hand across the lad’s scruffy whiskers. “Bryaxis is alive, but…” Gaius nodded towards the bloodied cloth bindings. “He’s been castrated.”

Max stumbled backwards. “What?”

“He’s lost quite a bit of blood. Dispatch one of the veterans to the home of my physician; instruct him to transport Archigenes here immediately. Tell him to carry the old Greek coot on his damn back if need be. Then go retrieve a clean cloak or sheet or whatever the fuck you can find and bring it to me quickly. It’s a miracle that he hasn’t bled to death.”

“He’s…” Max choked on a sob. “Bry’s been castrated?”

“For shit’s sake, Max. Move! And whatever you do, do not allow Euphronia to enter this room until I allow it.”

Gingerly, Gaius carried Bry over to the nearest couch and set him down. His long body was lighter than Gaius had expected.

Starved and dehydrated, no doubt.

He’d been too late—too late to honor Lucius, too late to keep Luc’s favorite safe.

He’d failed his best friend.

Gaius sat down on the edge of the couch and stroked Bry’s unwashed hair as the storm clouds rolled through the afternoon sky. From this high vantage point, the silhouette of Jupiter’s enormous temple was visible in the distance.

“I promise you, Lucius Petronius Celsus—they will pay. As Jove on the Capitoline is my witness.”

 

~~~~~

 

Slouched forward, his elbows resting on his thighs, Gaius sat on a bench in the same garden where, not long ago, he and Luc had dined and laughed and fucked. Heavy sheets of rain fell from the heavens, soaking his shoulders and back, flooding the ground. He looked down at the puddles lapping at his feet. In a few more moments, the rising water would cover his shoes.

Gaius buried his face in his hands and cursed the gods. Cursed the emperor and his own dead, disgraced father.

Cursed himself for his failure.

The doctor, Archigenes, had come and gone. The old man, whose spot-covered hands trembled from age, had inspected the wound, changed the soiled bandages, and concluded that a professional must have been hired for the gelding. Not the cleanest of cuts, he’d observed, but expert enough to not kill. Bryaxis would recover, physically.

Once this storm passed, they would leave this fucking tomb of a house. A cart had already been prepared to transport Bryaxis to Gaius’s home. The doctor had warned that the slave would have difficulty walking for several days; Bry was in no shape to hike up the Caelian Hill to Gaius’s estate.

Bryaxis would not ride alone; he would share the cart with Luc’s legal documents. As instructed, Gaius’s veterans had packed Luc’s papers from his library and office into several wooden crates. That irreplaceable slew of letters, books and ledgers might hold clues to solve his murder. And Gaius wanted them, so he took them.

Fuck Aurelia.

Euphronia had also gathered some items, including her favorite cooking pots and spices. They weren’t her property, of course, but he’d told her to take anything she wanted to bring to his home.

All of them—Bryaxis, Euphronia, her kitchen girl, and a few more of the long-time household servants of the Petronii family—all of them were now his responsibility until Luc’s testament was unsealed and its contents read.

It was a burden, but one he would bear for Lucius.

He’d sworn an oath.

“You’re still here?” She shouted over the downpour from underneath the shelter of the portico that encircled the garden. “I’d thought you’d left long ago.”

Gaius looked up and glared at her as raindrops dripped from his long lashes.

“You fucking mutilated Bryaxis, Aurelia.”

“Nonsense. Given many men’s carnal preferences these days, that whore is worth more as a eunuch, so don’t you dare accuse me of devaluing anyone’s property. The magistrates would laugh you out of the basilica.”

She was right.

In the eyes of the courts, castration would be judged as a valuable modification for a pleasure slave. For shit’s sake, pretty slave boys were losing their testicles left and right these days. Even Publius had voiced his disgust over this popular trend, but no one—not even the emperor—had done a damn thing to curb the growing lust for eunuchs.  

“Lucius would be furious that you gelded his favorite.”

She laughed.

“My beloved but rather possessive deceased husband ordered the castration. He left detailed instructions, of course. You know how lawyers are—or were.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I can show you the letter, if you like. Aren’t you the slightest bit curious as to what I did with…?” Aurelia smirked as she curled her right hand to form a cup in front of her crotch. “Them?”

“No.”

“Just as my husband stipulated, I had them placed in a sack and then I threw them up onto the pyre. They crackled as the flames consumed them. Now our dear Lucius can squeeze his slut’s balls for eternity—and you might have a eunuch to sell for profit, if my late husband left his slave whore to you in his will. It’s an on old eunuch, but it should still fetch good coin at auction. So you see, Commander Fabius, everybody wins.”

She wiped her hands on her dress. “I believe it’s close to time for dinner. Would you care to stay and join me, Commander? I’ll have a servant fetch you some dry clothes.”

Gaius pushed the saturated clumps of hair away from his eyes. He could barely see her through the wall of rain.

“I will destroy you.”

“What? I can’t hear you.”

He stood up slowly and strolled over to the portico, every muscle in his body taut with fury. He wrapped his left hand around her throat and pressed his thumb pad into the hollow below her larynx; her soft skin shivered under his grip.

“I will destroy you, Aurelia. And if I learn that you’ve been fucking that shithead of a Praetorian Prefect, I’ll eliminate him as well. There will be justice for Lucius.”

“I told you that I had nothing to do…”

Gaius released her neck, only to grab a fistful of her dull brown hair and yank her head back. “I don’t fucking care. I will destroy you, guilty or not.”

Gaius’s fierce scowl slowly morphed into a lethal grin. “Forgive my boorish manners, Aurelia. Before we depart for the Caelian, should I instruct Euphronia to prepare a heaping plate of her best fare for you? I know where Lucius stores his arsenic. Would you care for a farewell meal, you heartless lying cunt?”

He let go of her locks and stormed off, his sodden clothes dripping rainwater onto the black and white mosaic floor.

**~~~**

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**_Gaius Fabius’s estate on the Caelian Hill, Rome_**  
  
  
Several of the small blue flowers on a large rosemary bush had miraculously survived the violent storm. She reached out and gently brushed one with the tip of her finger, as if she were afraid it would disintegrate under the slightest touch. Max crossed his arms behind his back, lowered his chin, and cleared his throat before announcing his presence.   
  
“Greetings, Domina.”  
  
“Maximus!” She spun around, her long golden earrings dangling back and forth. “You’ve made it to the Caelian, at last.”   
  
Her voice sounded tired, but Domina’s smile was as bright and genuine as ever. Unlike Bryaxis, Max had never had any reason to fear his master’s wife. Truth be told, he adored this petite, attractive brunette woman from that very first day she joined the family. She had a spine of steel, tempered by an understated dignified nature. Fortuna had smiled on him—on the entire household—that day seven years past when Commander Fabius wed Marcia Servilia.  
  
“Where is my husband, Max?” Marcia stood on her toes in an attempt to see the entrance to the garden over his broad shoulder.   
  
“The commander is in the vestibule; he’s delivering instructions to his veterans, Domina.”  
  
“I imagine he’s been planning revenge from the moment Apollodorus delivered the awful news.”   
  
Max raised an eyebrow and nodded. His patron’s wrath was palpable for the entire strenuous trip up the Via Appia. For much of the journey, Gaius Fabius had ridden alone, some distance ahead of the architect’s posh travel wagon. Whenever Max happened to be within earshot of the general mutterings, he’d heard anger-filled promises to Lucius Petronius, oaths to find and kill his murderers.   
  
Marcia took one of Max’s hands between hers and sighed.  
  
The peaceful gurgling of the fountain in the center of the plantings in the herb garden was drowned out when Gaius barreled in, growling a string of curses. His wet clothes clung like a second skin to the solid curves of his muscular body. After he stripped off his cloak and threw it into the bushes, the elderly steward tiptoed over with a folded bundle of dry garments. Gaius snatched them, approached his wife, and lifted her hand to kiss it. “Greetings, my goddess.”  
  
Her forced smile couldn’t disguise her grief. “Gaius, I’m...”  
  
Gaius pressed his forefinger against her lips and turned his attention to Max. “Maximus, leave us and see to it that Lucius Petronius’s servants have adequate accommodations. And tend to Bryaxis; he should awaken soon.”   
  
After Max bowed and left, Gaius peeled off the rest of his sodden clothes. Naked, he carelessly tossed them over a lavender shrub before he pulled a freshly laundered tunic over his head.   
  
“I was too late, Marcia.” He lamented as he adjusted the ivory cloth.  
  
“I’m aware of that and I’m so sorry. I do wish you had stopped by the house before traveling up to the Quirinal so that I could have warned you. Please know that I did try to convince Aurelia to delay the funeral until your arrival, but Plotina…”  
  
“Yes, I heard all about our dear Plotina.” He gave Marcia a peck on the cheek and walked over to sit on a nearby bench. “That fucking bitch made sure to inform me that she’d received permission from the empress.”  
  
“Gaius, it had been nine hot days in that atrium. I visited their home and paid our respects. And I must admit that the funeral was indeed magnificent—a most worthy celebration of Lucius’s status and achievements. He has...” She coughed and continued. “Lucius had many friends.”  
  
“And at least one enemy.” Gaius mumbled, in a voice raspy and fatigued. He leaned back against the painted wall that surrounded the garden.   
  
“Were you aware that Aurelia had his favorite whore castrated?”   
  
“Immortal gods!”  
  
“She claimed that Lucius wanted the slave’s testicles sacrificed as offerings at his pyre.” He added with disgust, as he combed his fingers through his messy damp curls before scratching his scalp.  
  
“Is  _that_  what she threw into the flames?” Marcia covered her mouth with a loose fold of her light flaxen dress before asking, “Lucius would never have wanted such a barbaric thing, would he? I realize that he was often selfish when it came to that boy, but…”  
  
“She’s a lying cur, Marcia. Aurelia claims to have a letter that instructed her to do so. If the damn thing exists, it’s a fucking forgery. For all his faults, Lucius Petronius was a decent man. He’d never have ordered that. And it appears that the bitch is fucking Livianus, the Praetorian Prefect.”  
  
“Adulterous cow. Do you suspect he’s involved somehow?”   
  
“He’s near the top of a very long list, Marcia.” He patted the bench cushion.   
  
She sat down next to him and squeezed his knee. “Gaius, I am so terribly sorry about this. I know how close you and Lucius were all these years.”   
  
Gaius closed his eyes. “If it takes the rest of my damn life, I will find the bastards who murdered him.”  
  
They were both quiet, lost in thought, until Marcia sighed. “When you do find them, the magistrates will punish them. I expect they’ll show no leniency.”  
  
“I don’t plan on affording those lawyers the luxury of a delivering their self-serving speeches during some farce of a trial, dear wife.” Gaius turned to look at her. “By Jupiter, I’ll kill Luc’s murderers with my own damn sword. Slowly, painfully, and most certainly without any bloody mercy.”  
  
“Gaius, that’s vengeance, not justice.”  
  
He grabbed her chin; his fingertips pressed into the flesh beneath her cheeks. “Don’t quibble with me over petty semantics. Luc’s murderers will die. Do you understand me?”  
  
“Yes, Dominus.” Her calm tone failed to disguise her resentment. “I understand quite clearly.”  
  
He released his grip and gently caressed her abused skin. “A loyal and discreet wife is a precious gift.”  
  
“Then you are a most fortunate man, Gaius Fabius.” Marcia hurled back. She stood up and tossed the loose folds of her dress over her shoulder. Before she left, she added. “You also stink. The steward has prepared your baths. Wash that filth off and perhaps I might join you for dinner, dear.”  
  


~~~~~

  
Max picked up the strip of cloth soaking in cool water, wrung it out over the bowl, and pressed the damp rag against Bry’s forehead. The ferocious thunderstorm that had drenched the city earlier provided little more than a brief interlude from the heat. The sweltering humidity was back, hanging heavy in the air of the spare room.  
  
“There, that’s soothing, isn’t it?”  
  
Bryaxis lay on the bed, silent and unresponsive. He needed to come round now. The old Greek doctor had warned them not to let him sleep for too long.  
  
“Bry, wake up. The medicines should have worn off. C’mon.”  
  
Max shook Bry by his shoulders until his eyelids fluttered and he moaned. He sounded so weak.  
  
“Wake up, old friend.”  
  
Bryaxis cracked open his lids and squinted; he tried but failed to prop himself up on his elbows.  
  
“Where…” Squinting, Bry scanned the cell to get his bearings. “Where am I?”  
  
“At Commander Fabius’s estate on the Caelian.”  
  
“The Caelian? Why?”  
  
“You’ve been…” Max wasn’t sure what word to use. “Hurt. A doctor inspected the wound to be sure it hadn’t become foul. He changed the bandages. You’ll be fine.”  
  
“Then I wasn’t dreaming? It wasn’t just a nightmare?” Shaking, Bry ran his hand down over his abdomen until he touched the soft wad of bandages. Suddenly, he rolled on his side and wretched over the edge of the mattress. Max held the rag underneath Bry's mouth; only a few strings of saliva dripped down his chin.  
  
With a groan, Bry collapsed back on the mattress, covered his eyes with his hands, and cried. "My fucking balls! They cut them off!"  
  
“Bry, I…” Max stumbled over his words. “Listen, you’re lucky to be alive.”  
  
“Alive and emasculated.” Bry grabbed hold of Max’s thick forearm for support as he tried to sit up. “Please, Max…”  
  
“What do you need? There’s fresh water in this jar. Here, let me…”  
  
“I don’t want any fucking water!”   
  
Max kneaded his face in frustration and asked, “Then what can I do? Tell me.”  
  
“Kill me. Or just give me a knife. Please. I can’t… I don’t want to be here. Not like this. Not ever.”  
  
“I can’t do that. I’m sorry.”  
  
Bryaxis lay back down and turned his head to the side; a stream of tears flowed down the side of his straight nose while more tears pooled on the fabric of the tan pillow. “Leave, Max.”  
  
“You need to drink. And you need to eat to get your strength back. I’ll have Euphronia prepare you some food.”  
  
Bry glanced up through the tears. “She’s here?”  
  
“They’re all here: Euphronia, Daphne, and many of the other servants of Lucius Petronius’s family—your family. Everyone’s alive and under Commander Fabius’s protection.”  
  
“Fabius fucking owns me?”  
  
“The Commander is guarding you until Counselor Petronius’s testament is read in the courts.”  
  
Bry nodded and winced. “Is she—is Domina here as well?”  
  
“No. The commander nearly strangled her. She had the funeral rites for your Dom performed before he returned to Rome. He was furious. I expect he’ll never allow you to suffer her cruelty again.”  
  
Bryaxis bit the inside of his cheek. “Domina claimed that Lucius wanted… she said that Dom had left orders to have me cut before his funeral. She fucking laughed as they held me down.” He licked his chapped lips and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I don’t understand, Max. He said that he loved me. Lucius loved me. Why did he order me castrated?”  
  
“I don’t know, Bry. But it’s over and you’re safe here. Do you need more elixir for the pain?”  
  
“No.” Bryaxis closed his eyes. “I can’t feel a thing; I’m numb. If you won’t help me die, then please leave me alone.”  
  
Max extended his hand. “I won’t abandon you. I’m getting you some food and you will eat it. Sit up. That’s an order.”  
  
Bryaxis snorted in disbelief. “A fucking order?”  
  
“I’m a freedman, Bryaxis—I outrank you. Now take my hand and sit up.”  
  


~~~~~

  
Side by side, they turned the corner and ambled down the next length of the covered portico. The marble columns flanking the walkway were bathed in that rosy golden light that often washed over the city shortly before dusk in the summertime. The glow of the waning sunset reflected off the stone and transformed the stubborn puddles of rainwater to pools of glimmering amber.  
  
Marcia slipped her arm through the crook of Gaius’s elbow. “That meal was divine.”  
  
“Euphronia is the best cook in Rome. Be mindful not to boast about her skills when you visit the palace. If Plotina learns of her talents in the kitchen, our empress could compel us to sell Euphronia to her. Understood?”  
  
Marcia squeezed his arm and chuckled. “I won’t say a word. And speaking of slaves that should not be discussed at dinner parties, your blonde breeder is faring well.”  
  
Shit.  
  
He’d completely fucking forgotten about Zoe. When they’d arrived at the southern edge of the city, he’d sent Zoe and Callidora straight off to the Caelian in Apollodorus’ wagon accompanied by two guards.   
  
“It was an arduous trip from Puteoli. Are you sure she’s all right?”  
  
Marcia squeezed his bicep harder. “Zoe is fine. She was exhausted from the journey but she’s in good health. I assigned her and Callidora adjoining rooms in the girls’ quarters. Melissa is keeping a watchful eye on her. If something worrisome occurs, my pet will inform me immediately.”  
  
Gaius smiled half-heartedly and looked straight ahead. “Then you agree with the plan that I detailed in my letter?”  
  
“Scheme is the more appropriate term, don’t you think? Yes, I do. Only the gods know how tricky this might be, but it will be worth the risk if Zoe gives birth to a boy. And if we succeed in convincing the court—or should I say, Empress Plotina—that the child is ours, then the emperor will certainly name you his successor to the throne.” She pulled him to a stop and asked, “Gaius, the baby is your child, correct?”  
  
Gaius looked into her eyes. “Yes, it is,” he replied without blinking. “Has my physician examined her yet? He owes me a barrel of favors for the generous stipend I’ve granted him for years.”  
  
“Archigenes is scheduled to visit after Lucius’s will is read in the basilica. Given that Zoe is well, I thought it best to focus our energies on one task at a time.”  
  
“Very prudent, as always, my dear.”  
  
“Can we trust your Greek doctor with our gambit?”  
  
“He may be half senile and decrepit, but Archigenes is no fool. And if he dares open his mouth, I’ll cut his fucking tongue out right before I slit his throat.”  
  
“Gaius, if members or staff of the court are somehow involved in Lucius’s murder, this could get dangerously complicated.”  
  
“I’m well aware of that. And while I'm ferreting out the murderous snakes slithering about the palace, what will you be doing, wife, besides feigning pregnancy?”  
  
“I think it best that I handle our dear Aurelia,” she replied, a sparkle of lethal mischief twinkling in her blue-green eyes. “Do I have your permission, Dominus?”  
  
Gaius kissed her lightly on that sensitive spot behind her ear and murmured, “Eviscerate her.”  
  


~~~~~

  
Just before dawn broke, Max picked up a small lamp and made his way through the hallways to Commander Fabius’s suite. The bronze panels of the grand door were sculpted with elaborate scenes from Virgil’s epic masterpiece. Even from a distance, he recognized two episodes from the famous poem: Queen Dido’s suicide and the hero Aeneas’ defeat of his rival, Turnus. When Max was a young cock warmer, his auburn-haired master would share with him stories of ill-fated lovers, war and the whims of fortune. With a glimmer in his eyes, the general would recount exciting tales of deceit and vengeance and suffering inflicted by heartless gods—‘And so was the violent birth of our great empire,’ the commander was apt to sarcastically jest at the end of each story.  
  
Sweet recollections of much simpler days.  
  
Max wiped the grin off his face before he approached the entrance. Two stout guards wearing helmets and armed with short swords stood at attention in the vestibule on either side of the stately portal. They nodded silently and let him pass without question; everyone who lived or worked at the Caelian estate understood Max’s unique and privileged status.   
  
Expecting the commander to be awake as was his habit, Max knocked on the door. He winced when the light rap of his knuckles echoed much louder than he’d anticipated.  
  
“Enter.”  
  
The commander lay stretched out atop the plush mattress of his enormous bed; folds of ivory-colored bed linens were bunched casually over his lap and legs. He held an unrolled scroll in his right hand and stroked the large spotted cat with his left. Lucius Petronius’s signet ring on his middle finger flashed golden in the flickering light of the lamps.  
  
“Look, Pyramus. We have an unexpected guest, my dear puss.” The African feline blinked lazily, extended its front legs and voiced its bizarre bark-like mewl.  
  
“Greetings, Commander.”  
  
“Greetings, Maximus. It’s rather early for a visit.”  
  
Max drank in the vision of his near naked master lying on the bed in front of him and quickly felt inappropriately overdressed. He fidgeted with the hem of his short cloak. “Yes it is, sir. My apologies, but I wanted to check that you have everything you require before the day’s activities begin.”  
  
Gaius’s dimpled grin brightened the low-lit room. “Tending to my morning needs is no longer your duty, although I do appreciate the sentiment. Look here—I have a good book to read and a content companion purring by my side. What more could a man possibly need?”   
  
When the commander tossed the scroll onto his bedside table, Pyramus jumped down and crept away into the shadows. Gaius pulled back the remaining covers, revealing long, wavy locks of brunette hair spread out like a feathery fan over his bare stomach.   
  
The general gently tapped her bare shoulder. “Wake up, nymph.”  
  
The slave girl groaned softly before lifting her head to look up at his face. “Greetings, Dominus.”   
  
She had a flirtatious accent. Arabian, Max guessed.  
  
Gaius carded his fingers through her thick mane. “You, my dove, were a most pleasant diversion, definitely worth a second taste. I’ll call for you again before I depart Rome, but for now you may return to your quarters.”  
  
She slid off the bed, her olive skin glowing like polished bronze. When she spotted Max standing near the foot of the bed, the curvaceous young whore picked her dress up off the floor and hastily covered her naked body.  
  
“This is Maximus, my client.” Gaius informed her before he sat up and leaned back against the wall, his arms crossed behind his head. “He and I have matters to discuss. Leave.”  
  
She nodded nervously and struggled to dress herself as she padded out of the suite. Gaius tilted his chin towards the door and sighed in contentment. “A new sprite that Marcia recently purchased—enthusiastic and exceptionally limber. My wife does have excellent taste.”   
  
Max glanced backwards as she glided out through the door. “She’s graceful. What’s her name, sir?”  
  
Gaius paused and then confessed with a smirk. “I haven’t a fucking clue; I never asked. Tell me, how is Bryaxis faring?”  
  
“He’s—well, he’s…”  
  
“Alive.” Gaius stated flatly. “And damn fortunate to be so. He’ll adjust, Max. Give him time.”  
  
“Yes, sir.” Max placed the small ceramic lamp on a table. “Bryaxis has requested an audience with you, Commander.”  
  
“I’ll speak with him after my morning salutations,” Gaius replied and yawned.   
  
“Yes, Commander.”  
  
As Max turned to leave, Gaius blurted out. “Despite a good hard fuck, I barely slept at all.”  
  
“Has the insomnia returned, sir?”  
  
Gaius covered his crotch with a few folds of the blankets. “That bloody curse rarely gives me peace. But this is different. His anger haunted me throughout the night.”  
  
“Sir?”  
  
“I felt bloody nothing when he was murdered, Max. Nothing. But here in Rome I can feel the heat of Lucius’s wrath boiling over.”  
  
“You and Counselor Petronius were close friends for many years, sir.”  
  
“Yes, that we were. And now he’s dead and his spirit is furious.” Gaius rubbed his face and sighed. “Max, pour us some wine. There’s a smooth Spanish nectar in that jug on the table.”  
  
“May I ask a question, Commander?”  
  
Gaius laughed. “There’s no need to ask for permission, Max. You’re not a slave. When we’re alone, you may speak freely.”  
  
“Thank you, sir. If you were to make sacrifices at his tomb, would his ghost then be appeased?” Max carried over a silver cup of Spanish grape and handed it to Gaius.  
  
“Time will tell. I intend to ride out to his sepulcher this afternoon, offer libations and share a meal with my old friend.”  
  
“I’m sure Counselor Petronius will enjoy that.”   
  
“One can hope. Luc was always a right finicky son of a bitch when it came to food and drink. Max, pour some wine for yourself and sing me a song to soothe my troubled mind.”   
  
When Max hesitated, his lips parted in surprise, Gaius reassured him. “It’s a request, not an order, Maximus.”  
  
“Sir, I…” The commander hadn’t asked him to sing in years.  
  
“Did you lose your talent for song when I freed you?” Gaius chuckled as he raised his cup, took a gulp and placed the vessel on the table. “Sing something in your native language. I confess I’ve missed your lovely serenading almost as much as I’ve missed your fit ebony arse.”  
  
His face warm, Max smiled and swallowed a hefty drink of wine before he put his cup down to unclasp his cloak and loosen the fabric of his tight collar.   
  
“It would be my pleasure, sir.” He cleared his throat and began to sing. Low and hoarse at first, but gradually his voice smoothed out to its mellow, natural melodic charm.  
  
Gaius closed his eyes and whispered, “Ah, yes. So tranquilizing. I don’t believe that I’ve heard this one before.”  
  
Max sang the haunting lyrics to an old tune his mother had often sung to him and his younger siblings back home in Kush. After he sang the last word of the final poignant line, Max hummed softly until his voice faded to silence. Just when he was convinced that the commander had dozed off, Gaius opened his eyes.  
  
“Max?”  
  
“Sir?”  
  
“What was that song about?”  
  
“It’s a old ballad, sir. Two lovers from enemy peoples ignore the threats of their fathers and secretly meet every night to share their passion.”  
  
“Forbidden love, then?” Gaius held out his cup and Max filled it with more undiluted wine.  
  
“Yes, sir. At the end of the song, the young couple leave the security of their homes and run off together into the vast emptiness of the desert, never to be heard from again.”  
  
“Then it concludes on a hopeful note.”  
  
“Hopeful? I’ve never thought of it that way but I suppose it does, sir.”  
  
A few more moments of quiet passed. Max settled into a chair while Gaius stared at the stucco ornaments that decorated the high vaulted ceiling.  
  
“I know why Lucius is angry.”  
  
“Sir?”  
  
Gaius guzzled more wine before he explained. “I’ve forsaken him.”  
  
“I don’t understand, sir: How, if I may ask?”  
  
“I failed to protect his beloved family.” Gaius declared, though Max sensed there was more on his patron’s mind. Gaius fidgeted with the bed covers until he finally exhaled and confessed. “And I’ve allowed my heart to be enchanted by a fucking barbarian.”   
  
“The Dacian, sir?”  
  
Gaius took a small sip and smiled. “If he were here, Luc would no doubt warn me that my infatuation with that beautiful heathen is nothing more than temporary madness. He would mock me for this foolishness. I can hear him now: ‘Gaius, have you fallen in love with that furry wolf cub? Have you lost your fucking mind, soldier?’”  
  
Max’s brow furrowed. He’d suspected that Paulus had fallen for the commander, but he hadn’t realized that Dom had feelings for the Dacian.   
  
“May the gods flail me. This lack of sleep has me blathering nonsense. Ignore me. Thank you for the song, Maximus.”  
  
“I’m pleased that it gave you comfort.” Max paused before he suggested, “Commander, do you believe that Counselor Petronius’s sprit could be...”  
  
Gaius arched an eyebrow and waited.  
  
“Perhaps his ghost is upset about Bryaxis. Perhaps he…”  
  
“Bryaxis? Shit, he was there.” Gaius threw off the bed covers and jumped to his feet. “Ram a satyr’s fat prick up my arse! How, by the gods, could I have been so inattentive?”  
  
After Gaius pulled his tunic over his head, he yanked his curly hair free from the neck hole. “That weasel reported that Bryaxis was there at Luc’s deathbed and I was too distracted to pay any mind to it. I fucking overlooked the only useful and likely truthful bit of information that harpy shared.”   
  
He rubbed his temples before draining the last of the wine from his cup. “I need to speak to Bryaxis. Guard!”  
  
One of the sentries rushed into the room, the hilt of his sheathed sword firmly in his grasp.  
  
“Commander?”  
  
“Tell the steward to inform my clients that this morning’s salutations are cancelled. Tell him to report that I’m unwell or some other rubbish.”  
  
After the guard left, Max asked, “May I join you, sir?”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Bry’s demeanor tends to anger you, sir. He’s hurt, but he’s still the same cheeky, brazen lad that he’s always been. Bryaxis is confused and upset, sir. He may say something inappropriate.”  
  
“For fuck’s sake, Maximus, I don’t intend to strike him.” Gaius pressed his lips together as he buckled his belt. He sighed heavily before he opened the door and started down the corridor. When he reached the corner, he turned and added. “Join me if you wish, but do not interfere.”   
  
“Thank you, sir.” Max replied and jogged to catch up.  
  
“I need him to tell me what he remembers from that night; he may know something that could help find Luc’s killers.” Gaius patted Max’s cheek and smiled. “And I  _can_  control my temper when the situation warrants, Maximus. You better than anyone should know that. Our mischievous Nicomedes still has his impudent balls, does he not?”  
  
~~~~~


	3. Chapter 3

**_Gaius Fabius’s estate on the Caelian Hill, Rome_ **   
  


“Bryaxis!”  
  
Jolted out of a deep slumber, Bry grimaced as he struggled to roll from the bed and drop to his knees as gracefully as he could.   
  
“Commander. Fabius. Sir.” He uttered between labored wheezes.  
  
“Get up and sit on the bed, slave.”  
  
With effort and another grimace, Bry pushed his tall frame up and carefully lowered his hips onto the thin mattress. Clenching the bedcovers until his knuckles turned white, he stared at the floor while Gaius dragged a tall-backed wicker chair close by the bed.   
  
“Look at me, Bryaxis.” Gaius scooted the chair forward a few inches. “Fucking look at me.”  
  
Despite being bloodshot and swollen, Bry’s golden-green eyes still burned with feisty resilience—the haughty self-confidence that Gaius had always resented, the brazen fire that Lucius had always adored.   
  
Gaius cupped the slave’s scruffy chin and lifted his face for inspection. “His color is better. You’ve proven yourself a capable nurse, Maximus.”  
  
“Thank you, sir.” Max acknowledged over Gaius’s shoulder.  
  
“Bryaxis, I was informed that you were at Lucius Petronius’s deathbed. Is that correct?”  
  
The lad blinked once, slowly. “I was there from the moment they carried Dominus into the atrium. He was in agony and covered in blood. Sir.”  
  
Gaius rubbed his face and took a deep breath. “Was he able to speak? Did Lucius say anything?”   
  
“He thanked me for loving him. And for allowing him to love me.”  
  
Gaius swallowed the ache that assaulted his heart. “Anything else?”  
  
“Dominus made me promise to tell you…” Bry’s voice trailed off.  
  
Gaius sat back and crossed his arms; a thousand possible confessions flew through his mind, but his gut told him none included the word, love. “Go on.”  
  
“He wanted you to know that he’d never intended to get involved. He said that he’d had no choice. He demanded that I beg on his behalf for your forgiveness, Commander.”  
  
“Those were his exact words?”  
  
“Yes, sir. Dominus said, ‘Tell Gaius that I’m so sorry.’”  
  
His fingers curled into fists, Gaius stood up and left the room to regain his wits. After a few deep breaths, he turned around and went back into the small cell.   
  
“Did he reveal anything more, Bryaxis? I was told the two guards who survived the attack saw nothing, know nothing. Did Lucius recognize his assailants? Did he give you any damn clue as to what nonsense he was involved in?”  
  
“No, sir. He could hardly speak. He was in terrible pain.” Biting his full lower lip, Bryaxis glanced to the side before asking, “Do you forgive him?”  
  
“How can I fucking forgive him for some transgression that I know nothing about?”  
  
After he sat back down, Gaius tapped his fingers on the arms of the wicker chair and waited for his anger to cool. He needed a strategy.  
  
“You’ve fulfilled your promise to your master. Now I must fulfill mine. And for that, I’ll need your assistance.”  
  
Bryaxis stared at the two signet rings on Gaius’s fingers—his own lion band on his right ring finger and Luc’s oak ring on the middle finger of his left hand. The Caledonian looked at Max for reassurance before he asked, “You need me, sir? I had expected to be sold.”  
  
“That could certainly happen, slave. We’ll learn your fate when Lucius’s testament is read in the basilica. In the meantime, I’ve a task for you. All of Luc’s papers and books are here; they’re in crates in the storage room next to my office.”  
  
A slight smile curled the corners of Bry’s chapped lips. “Domina allowed you to take his papers, sir?”  
  
“I forgot to ask for permission. Listen, you will go through his documents—every letter, every fucking ledger and legal paper—and read them carefully. There isn’t much time until Lucius’s will is read, so begin with his most recent correspondence.”  
  
“And if something seems amiss or noteworthy, I should set it aside for your eyes?”  
  
“Exactly. You were his assistant; you’ll spot discrepancies more easily than I could. Do you remember the conversation in the garden the last night I visited the Quirinal and we…” Gaius arched one brow.  
  
“The evening that you and Dom shared me?”  
  
“Yes. When I arrived, you were concerned about Lucius’s mood. Do you recall that?”  
  
“I remember that you slapped my face, yes.” Bry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I remember that Dom mentioned an embezzlement case—some funds missing from the imperial purse. I believe he was reviewing the palace ledgers in his library the morning of the day he was murdered. Sir.”  
  
“Start with those papers. Lucius was fond of scribbling his notations in Greek. You can read Greek, correct?”  
  
“Yes, sir. I’ve mastered both languages. I read Sappho and Meleager to Dominus regularly.”  
  
“Our counselor always had a soft underbelly for love poetry.” Despite his smile, Gaius ground his teeth to stay in control. He’d saved every damn one of those love poems that Luc had written for him back in Athens; they were sitting in a neat bundle in a box tucked away in his Caelian office. Luc’s gold ownership chain and those sappy verses and faded memories were all that remained of their youthful reckless passion.  
  
Gaius startled when Bryaxis hacked into his fist. The slave coughed once more, softer, and delivered a line of Greek verse to showcase his proficiency. “I run to you as the traveler runs towards the shade when scorched by the sun.”  
  
“A fine example of Theokritos’ mawkish drivel. I’ve never been a devotee of the Sicilian poet, but your pronunciation is passable. For a Caledonian wretch.” Gaius scoffed as he stood up.   
  
“Perhaps you would prefer a rousing war speech from Thucydides instead, sir?”  
  
Cheeky shit.  
  
“Save the recitals for another time. And lose the fucking sarcasm. You’ll start reviewing Lucius’s records tomorrow morning. For now, Maximus will help you wash up and shave off those scraggly whiskers. You’ll need clothes more suitable for travel. Be sure he has a summer cloak, Maximus.”  
  
Max stepped forward. “Are we leaving Rome, Commander?”  
  
“Unless the Fates say otherwise, we’re stranded here for the foreseeable future. But we are making an excursion this afternoon.”  
  
“May I ask to where, sir?”  
  
“To the tomb of my dearest friend, Lucius Petronius Celsus, to pay our respects and offer the proper sacrifices. You will have an opportunity to say your final farewells, Bryaxis. Lucius would have wanted that. He would have demanded it.”   
  
Bry opened his mouth as if to ask a question but instead looked at the floor and spoke in his most deferential tone. Despite Gaius’s grumblings all these years, Lucius had trained Bryaxis well. “Thank you, Commander Fabius.”   
  
With one foot on the threshold, Gaius turned around and clapped his hands together. “By Tyche! What a fortuitous opportunity the goddess has presented us. Max, I’ve decided that we’ll bring along the rest of the family. We’ll assemble the entire household and my veteran clients and, together, we’ll travel in solemn procession to Luc’s sepulcher on the Via Tiburtina. It’s well past time that the noble Fabii put on a fucking public spectacle worthy of our illustrious ancestors. What do you think of my idea, Maximus?”  
  
Taken aback by the question, Max sputtered. “It is—it’s a splendid suggestion, sir.”  
  
With a sly grin, Gaius marched into the corridor and hollered, “Varius!”  
  
Moments later, the disfigured retired soldier lumbered down the hall. “Yes, Commander?”  
  
Gaius barked orders over his shoulder as he trotted off towards the atrium. “Tell the staff to prepare a feast—our finest wine and three plump sacrificial hogs—and order the hands to hitch the horses and oxen to every damn cart and travel wagon that I own here in Rome.”   
  
“Understood, sir.” Varius panted as he tried to keep pace.  
  
“And then gather the veterans where the arches of the aqueduct cross the Tiburtina at the marble gate of the Divine Augustus. We’ll meet you there for our march out to the mausoleum of the Petronii. And Varius?”  
  
“Sir?”  
  
“Before you leave, fetch my parade armor.”  
  
“Your armor, Commander?”  
  
“Be sure my breastplate’s spit and polished. I’ll cover it with civilian garb, as tradition requires until I cross the sacred boundary. And Varius?”  
  
“Sir?”  
  
“Bring extra swords.” Gaius pointed to the stone floor. “There are vile vermin crawling through the fucking sewers beneath our feet.”  
  
Varius took off for the kitchen while Gaius turned down another short hallway that led into the atrium. There he found Marcia and two of her girls lounging on couches, their heads close together as they whispered, deep in conversation.  
  
Marcia hushed them and nodded to her husband. “Good morning, Dominus.”  
  
“Greetings, my dear.”   
  
“I trust you had a pleasant night.”  
  
“She was most pleasant.” He pointed to her slave girls. “There’s no spare time for sitting about the hall, muttering trivialities. We’ve a busy day ahead of us. Every girl of this household—every kitchen slave, every damn chamber servant, and your flock of delectable birds—will dress in her finest garb. Tell your nymphs to be prepared to dance. We’re taking a trip.”   
  
“To where, Gaius?”  
  
“Have you looked outside, wife? The sun is shining and the summer breezes are tolerable. It’s the perfect day to enjoy the green fields bordering our capital. We’ll travel through the city on our way out to the suburbs. Make a bloody show of it.” Gaius lowered his hands and dropped his comical tone. “The entire fucking family is travelling to the Tomb of the Petronii—for a picnic. Let’s move!”  
  


~~~~~

  
**_The Old Forum, Rome_**  
  
Wrapped in a thin but voluminous indigo cloak pinned to conceal the bronze armor strapped to his torso, Gaius rode at the head of an impressive column of vehicles; the long line of carts and wagons, all draped in festive festoons, carried Marcia, Bryaxis, Euphronia, and most of Gaius’s domestic slaves. In front of him, a regiment of attendants on foot carried long poles topped by colorful banners that fluttered in the warm midday breezes. Musicians played tubas to the drummers’ solemn beat while Marcia’s girls, twirling about in their swirling dresses, chimed their finger cymbals in rhythm. Behind Gaius, astride their own horses and surrounded by armed guards on foot, Max and Varius rode side by side. In his booming voice, Varius prattled on about another one of his bloody war adventures; no doubt Maximus was trying his best to appear interested in the gruesome particulars.  
  
Gaius chuckled under his breath. He was tempted to silence Varius, but the old veteran was a damn fine storyteller.  
  
The large retinue of riders, footmen and wagons slowly passed beneath the towering facades of the marble temples that crowded the Forum along the paved road of the Sacred Way. When the parade approached the rows of shops near the basilicas, groups of citizens and merchants stopped their animated conversations to watch the procession. A few applauded with boisterous whoops and hurrahs; most froze, mouths agape, until they were forced to step aside to get out of the way.  
  
It wasn’t every day that Gaius Fabius, Lion of the Lucky Fourth, paraded his entire household through the fucking center of Rome.  
  
As they trekked past the high podium of the shrine of the Divine Twins, an attractive harlot pushed her way through the crowd and stepped out into the street. She hoisted her skirt high above her bare hips.  
  
“Might a lady interest you in quick screw, Commander?”  
  
With a broad smile, Gaius shouted back over the noise. “Should Fortuna someday abandon me, my dear, you’d be the first street trollop that I’d fuck!”  
  
The throng of onlookers cheered.  
  
“Toss her a piece of silver, Maximus.”  
  
The prostitute snatched the small coin before it hit the ground; after she bowed in gratitude, she grabbed her bush of dark pubic curls and made a gesture that caused even battle-hardened Varius to blush bright red. Gaius tossed his head back and cackled with delight before kicking his horse forward.   
  
A short distance beyond the temple, a middle-aged man dressed in a striped senatorial toga and a broad-brimmed sun hat grabbed the arm of his slave and shuffled to get out of their path. Gaius signaled his procession to stop.   
  
“Gaius Plinius, you filthy equestrian! Why is our noble friend puttering about the Forum in this midday heat? Shouldn’t you be dining and bathing in leisure at one of your country villas?”  
  
“I've just had the enviable pleasure of sitting through another proposterous and futile debate in the Senate, Commander Fabius. Alas, court business has trapped me for the time being in this marble inferno of a city. I suppose that I could ask why you are not relaxing on some Campanian beach, but I see you’ve decided instead to marshal an impromptu parade through the center of Rome. Most impressive, sir.”  
  
Gaius dismounted his horse, rushed over to the slight fellow, and pulled him into an embrace tight enough to dislodge his sun hat. “By Hercules, it’s been far too long since I’ve seen you, Pliny.”  
  
“It has, my dear Gaius.” Pliny wiggled out of Gaius’s arms, straightened his hat, and boldly tapped Gaius’s chest. “You’re wearing a metal breastplate under that mantle. Preparing for battle, general?”  
  
“It’s my parade gear. The Fabii are headed out to pay our respects at the Tomb of the Petronii. Lucius would have wanted me dressed in my best ceremonial armor for the occasion. And such good fortune to run into you; you will now join us. Maximus! Get down off that beast and lead it over here for our dear and most honorable counselor of the courts.”  
  
“Gaius, I have obligations…” Pliny protested with a wave of his hand as Max dismounted.  
  
“Rubbish.” Gaius’s smile hardened to stone. “You have obligations to Lucius Petronius—and to me. Here, let me give you a good shove up onto your horse, old boy.”   
  
After he landed in the large saddle with a thud, Pliny lost his balance momentarily and nearly fell off.   
  
“Despite your equestrian rank, you’re not much of a horseman, are you?” Gaius joked as he lifted himself back onto his tall chestnut steed with an attendant’s assistance.  
  
“I’ll have you know, my dear Commander, that I am in fact a most accomplished rider.” Pliny countered as he took hold of the reins. “Gaius, all jests aside, I am deeply sorry about the death of your dear friend.”  
  
“Lucius Petronius was your friend as well, wasn’t he? Let’s enjoy a leisurely journey out to the cooler air of our verdant suburbs and have a chat.”   
  
Gaius guided his mount until it pressed close against the shoulder of Pliny’s borrowed horse. “While we ride, you will tell me all about this little intimate bash of yours—the dinner party that you hosted, the last affair that Lucius attended before he was murdered. I want every damn detail, counselor.”  
  
Pliny removed his hat to wipe his brow. “Yes, Commander.”  
  
“What food did you serve?”  
  
“Pardon me, Commander? Did you just ask what food was served?”   
  
“Yes, and I want details. Make my mouth water.”  
  
After he put his hat back on, Pliny scrunched his brow. “Well, if I recall correctly, my cook prepared a delicious menu: roasted hare with sweet fig sauce, fish from my pools baked in tender vine leaves, lentils with lemon and coriander, chickpeas in saffron, and the most exquisite dried pear pudding. Not a palatial feast, I admit, but the ingredients were fresh and succulent. My esteemed guests were pleased.”   
  
“You have a most keen memory for minutiae, Pliny.”  
  
Pliny delighted in the compliment, as Gaius knew he would. Flattery from a superior was a treasured commodity for lower born aristocrats like Gaius Plinius Secundus.   
  
“You are too kind, Commander Fabius, but thank you. I have always prided myself on my talents for recollection.”   
  
“Given your sharp mind, then, you should have no issue recounting that night’s conversation. I already know who was there; tell me what was discussed and by whom.”  
  
“Most of the evening was spent listening to a formal reading. I’d invited one of Quintilian’s pupils—that Juvenal fellow—to present some of his satirical writings. He told this story, Gaius, about an enormous fish—a monstrous turbot with spikes for scales. It was quite an amusing tale. Alas, he’s a verbose man, deft but indefatigable. My esteemed guests had little time to discuss court gossip, let alone matters of state.”  
  
As they passed the high walls of the Vestal Virgins’ urban residence, the arcades of the great amphitheater rising above the rooftops to the east, Gaius asked, “And when they did have time, what was discussed?”  
  
“Given that my party was a select gathering of the most learned men of Rome, our colleagues carried on conversations in pairs. Lucius occupied a couch with Publius Aelius Hadrianus. He was Publius’s invited guest, though of course I would have invited Lucius myself had Publius not done so. Such a bright fellow our Lucius was. Such wit. I’ll miss him terribly.”  
  
“As will we all. Considering how long you and Lucius have served together on the emperor’s courts, I’m surprised you two didn’t discuss your current judicial cases. Did Lucius mention anything to you about the embezzlement situation he was charged to investigate?”  
  
Pliny lowered his volume. “Embezzlement? No, he hadn’t mentioned anything of the sort. Why, by Jupiter, wouldn’t he have told me?”  
  
“I don’t know. Perhaps he was directed to be discreet.”   
  
They circled around the amphitheater and ascended the slopes of the Oppian Hill, past the bustling construction site of the emperor’s new bath complex—a deafening cacophony of hammers striking metal, saws slicing through wooden beams, and foremen cracking their whips and screaming orders at the gangs of slaves. When the clamorous commotion was behind them, Gaius turned in his saddle. “Pliny, exactly what did my dear brother and Lucius Petronius chat about that night?”  
  
“I only heard bits and pieces of their conversation, I’m afraid. Publius Aelius was complimenting our dear associate… most audaciously, as I recall.”  
  
“He was flirting with Luc?”  
  
“I would never make such an inflammatory accusation, but—but much wine was consumed that evening.”  
  
“Pity you didn’t hear more. With whom did you speak?”  
  
“I spent far too much of my energies conversing with our noble consul, Minicius. By Minerva’s spindle, he’s a most vapid man. He prattled on and on about his accomplishments, how quickly he’d ascended the offices—his usual asinine gloating. I pretended to listen, but I may have nodded off once or twice.”  
  
“Minicius is a dullard, as is that satirist twit you invited to recite. I’ve heard Juvenal deliver his daft poetry twice now—and I’ve suffered through that ridiculous fish story. He’s an imbecile, daring to openly suggest that men shouldn’t bed lads.” Gaius spat in disgust. “That bloody moralist won’t ever receive patronage from our dear, lad-loving Emperor Trajan. Juvenal will be lucky if he’s not exiled. Anyhow, what happened at the end of the dinner? The moments before Lucius departed?”  
  
“Nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, Lucius left early. He seemed bored, anxious to get home.”  
  
“Perhaps he was embarrassed by Publius’s fawning, or desirous to get back to his bed warmer. His pleasure slave is here, you know—in the wagon back there with my household servants. I’m guarding him until Luc’s testament is unsealed.”  
  
“It was considerate of you to bring him along and allow him to pay his respects to his former master.”  
  
“I’m a fucking paragon of virtue, my dear Pliny.” They both enjoyed that comfortable, genuine laughter only close friends dare to share. “We’ll discuss this party of yours again. I expect I’ll be in Rome longer than I’d care to be.”  
  
Gaius raised his hand; the procession slowed to a stop to allow a file of supply wagons loaded with marble blocks to cross the road. “You’ll join me for dinner on the Caelian, Counselor. Lucius’s cook is in my custody as well; she’ll prepare some of the finest fare you’ve ever tasted. Perhaps the atmosphere will spark some additional memories of that evening.”  
  
“It would be a great honor to dine with you, Commander.”  
  
“I can’t guarantee that I will entertain you with cerebral dinner conversation, my dear Pliny, but I can promise that no one will be fucking murdered.” Gaius flashed a sardonic smile, lowered his arm, and kicked his horse. “Forward!”  
  
~~~


	4. Chapter 4

  
                                                                         

 

   

  
**_The Via Tiburtina, Rome_**  
  
When the procession reached the aqueduct at the eastern outskirts of the city, Gaius’s veterans joined the parade and followed the slow moving wagons past the rows of cypress trees that lined both sides of the paved road. In front of the trees, funerary monuments of all shapes and sizes stood crowded together close to the curbs, while the vast estates of aristocratic villas dominated the hilly landscape behind the tombs. Generations of the dead mingled with the living along stretches of the consular highways of Rome.  
  
While his riding companion babbled on and on, Gaius shut his ears, closed his eyes, and inhaled the cooler air lightly fragranced by the evergreens.  
  
Undeterred by Gaius’s silence, Pliny raised his voice even louder. “So will you assist me, Gaius? Will you speak with him?”  
  
Shit.  
  
Annoyed, Gaius opened his eyes and turned to his friend. “You’re disturbing my fucking peace, counselor.”  
  
“My apologies, but will you please urge Tacitus to reply to my letters? He’ll listen to you; he was your pedagogue, after all. You see, Gaius, I sent him some of my writings before the festival of Ceres and I’ve heard nothing. It’s been over two months now and not a single comment from him.”  
  
“Do you smell that, my dear Pliny—that delicate spice of cypress? It’s much more pleasant than the heavy blanket of juniper and pine that chokes the air in the Dacian forests.”  
  
Swaying back and forth in the saddle as his horse ambled down the basalt pavers, Gaius closed his eyes again. His mind drifted off to memories of marching through the rocky Carpathian Mountains with his legions, felling trees and building forts, bridges, roads—anything to conquer those menacing savages. In those dark Dacian forests, wolves lurked in the shadows, vicious beasts that were nearly invisible but always near. Always watching, waiting.   
  
Gaius opened his eyes and pressed his lips together. He reminded himself to never forget that raven-haired Allerix, born and raised in those rugged Carpathian forests, was also a cunning predator. A wolf.   
  
He glanced over his shoulder; there they were—the veterans who’d followed him into battle and survived those brutal wars fought so far from home. He’d lost many soldiers, many loyal friends. Thousands of brave Roman men had given up their lives to acquire that glittering Dacian gold.   
  
As the lawyer continued to prattle on about his writing rubbish, Gaius rubbed his face and mumbled to himself. “Thank the fucking gods we won the war.”  
  
Pliny stopped his tedious chatter, cleared the dust from his throat, and raised his palms to the sky. “Let us praise almighty Jupiter for granting us a glorious victory! Praise our victorious emperor, Marcus Ulpius Traianus! The Dacian scourge no longer menaces our empire and the triumphal games promise to be spectacular." Pliny dropped his arms. "Of course you’ll be here for the festivities, Gaius, won’t you?”  
  
“Your gift for hyperbole is admirable, but the Dacians were never a serious threat to our supremacy, merely a costly and time-consuming nuisance. And, yes—I will attend the triumphal games, but they won’t be held for another year or more. The renovations to the great circus aren’t finished and the new imperial baths are behind schedule. Emperor Trajan might wish to celebrate his triumph before the winter rains arrive, but his construction projects are ambitious. For all his talent, Apollodorus is not a fucking magician.”  
  
“Apollodorus is a skilled and experienced engineer. I, for one, would never wager against his punctuality.”  
  
“He’s a mortal man, subject to the whims of our capricious gods, as we all are. Even if every damn supply ship arrives from the stone quarries without incident, the worst of summer’s heat and the noxious pests of the marshes will descend upon us soon. By the gods, I despise this city this time of year. Nevertheless, I will remain in Rome to scour every block and every slum until I find Lucius Petronius's killers. Trust me—there will be nothing left to burn on the pyre when I'm finished with them.”   
  
“My family and I shall pray that the vile butchers are captured quickly.” Pliny replied in a nervous tone and looked away.   
  
The lawyer knew more about this heinous crime than he’d led Gaius to believe. They would chat over dinner, and damn soon.  
  
After they passed the second mile marker, the silhouette of a large domed tomb rose above the trees. Pliny sat straighter in his saddle and pointed. “There it is! What a noble tomb for such an accomplished plebian family.”   
  
“It’s too bloody ostentatious for a plebian family’s mausoleum, no matter how distinguished they imagine they are.”  
  
It was a callous insult. Gaius swore at himself under his breath. “Forgive my arrogance, Pliny. It’s a patrician’s curse. You and Lucius and Titus Petronius are most honorable men.”  
  
“Thank you, Gaius, but I prefer to note my equestrian rank, not my plebian lineage.”  
  
Gaius flicked his hand with a dismissive huff. “Equestrian, plebian—it’s all the bloody same. Your clans achieved political influence long after the critical battles had already been won by Rome’s founding families.”  
  
“The struggles between the well-born families and the plebian clans ended long ago, Commander. Together, plebians and patricians have ruled, fought and fornicated for generations. But fear not—at the end of the day, you will always be a patrician prick, my dear Gaius Fabius.”  
  
When Gaius didn’t laugh, Pliny’s right eyelid twitched.   
  
“You’ve seen me in all my glory at the baths.” Gaius lifted himself off his saddle and grabbed his crotch. “A noble shade of crimson, you must admit.”  
  
Pliny exhaled in relief, rubbed his eye, and snorted. “Yes, a most patrician scarlet! Will you have that engraved on your tomb, Commander?”  
  
“Why bother? Our stone memorials are condemned to crumble to dust. It will be the historians, like our dear friend Tacitus, who will determine our legacies, Pliny.”  
  
“And, I’m afraid, our careers.” Pliny mumbled and asked in earnest, “What about the accolades of the Roman people? Surely their adoration for their leaders will live on forever.”   
  
“The proletariat is a restless cesspool of fickle bitches with bottomless stomachs, my good friend. We placate them with free grain, circus races, and drunken feasts. They stay satiated and we remain in power. And that strategy will always succeed, until...”  
  
“Until?”  
  
“Until the barbarians storm the gates and learn to master the games of Rome.”  
  
He collected the reins and rubbed his horse’s flank with his boot; his chestnut mount snorted with anticipation. Gaius licked his lips and said, “And when that day comes, my dear Pliny, let us pray we have a loyal and well-equipped army willing and able to defend our noble city. It is the soldiers who will stand as stalwarts of Rome’s dominion, not the filthy urban mob or those crusty old fucks in the Senate. Now, if you will please excuse me.”  
  
Gaius waved for the parade to come to a halt while he unclasped the gold brooch pinned to the front of his mantle; the dark blue folds fell to the sides, revealing his polished bronze breastplate decorated with griffins and winged Victory figures arranged as pairs on either side of a war trophy. After he pushed the excess cloth of his cloak over his shoulders, Gaius turned to Varius.  
  
“Stay here while I ride ahead. Proceed at a slow march only after you see that I’ve reached the tomb.”  
  
“Yes, Commander.”  
  
With a nod, Gaius kicked his stallion to a canter and rode over a mile down the road to the entrance of a large brick structure sheathed in polished marble slabs. Withered roses blanketed the ground, the debris of the recent funeral celebrations. He dismounted and scooped a handful of the wilted red petals; slowly he spread his fingers and they fluttered to the ground.   
  
“Greetings, Lucius Petronius Celsus. Finally, I am here to say farewell, share some damn fine wine with you, and sacrifice sows in your honor. You’ve only just left this world and already I miss you more than my heart can bear, Luc.”   
  
After he pulled his indigo cloak up over his head in the manner of a priest’s cowl, Gaius wiped his runny nose and approached the entrance of the tomb.   
  
“Your tardy soldier made a vow of vengeance before thunderous Jove. Don’t laugh, counselor—perhaps the old heartless bastard listened. Justice will be served, Luc. I promise you that Rome will never forget you, nor will I. Your whore tells me that you’ve asked for my forgiveness, but I pray that some day you will forgive me.” He caressed the bronze door and whispered. “Please forgive me, Luc.”   
  
Gaius squatted and touched the grey marble slab that had been set into the earth, its polished surface pierced in the center with a pipe. From a leather pouch attached to the red sash tied around his waist, he pulled out a small silver vessel. Slowly, he poured a thin stream of wine into the lead tube that snaked its way underground to feed the dead.  
  
“I offer your thirsty spirit this Chalkidian grape, the wine we enjoyed back in Athens all those years ago. Drink this nectar of our carefree, salacious youth and find everlasting peace,  _Erastes_.”  
  
After the last drop had fallen into the pipe, Gaius sat on the ground, legs crossed with his elbows on his knees, and listened to the chirping of the cicadas as he stared at the bronze plaques attached to the pediment above the doorway: an owl and an olive branch—the symbols of warrior goddess Minerva, the patron deity of the Petronii.  
  
That virgin hag hadn’t protected Lucius either. They’d both failed him.  
  
Fuck, his head hurt. Everything hurt. Even the normally dulcet song of the cicadas pained him.  
  
“Quit that fucking racket!”  
  
The cicadas chirped louder.  
  
“Insolent buggers.”   
  
A ghost of an ache tingled through the fingertips of his right hand. He extended his arm in front of him, palm down. The tremor was slight, barely noticeable, but he saw it. He felt the spasm. He recognized the warning signs he’d grown to fear since childhood.  
  
Gaius shut his eyes and balled his hand into a tight fist. It would not happen. He would not allow it. He would not thrash in the dirt, frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog in front of his entire household. He would not surrender to the dreaded affliction.   
  
Gaius dug his fingernails into the damp skin of his palm until he drew blood. “I curse you, rapacious harpies of the lunacy. Be gone! Leave me be!”  
  
He squeezed his eyes, and unfurled and closed his fist several times, slowly. The spasm faded and disappeared. All was quiet—even the cicadas stopped screeching—until a white mourning dove, frightened by the dusty commotion of the approaching carts, cooed loudly as she flew out of nearby bushes and up into the trees. When the procession pulled to a noisy stop at the assembly area in front of the mausoleum, everyone remained in their seats and waited.  
  
Gaius took a deep breath, cleaned his bloody palm with the edge of his dark cloak, and rubbed his eyes. Damn, that had been far too close to disaster.   
  
The cicadas’ cacophony returned.   
  
He rose to his feet and signaled his household to disembark and join him. The crowd quickly took their positions before the entrance to the mausoleum, the veterans standing at attention in formation, the slaves dropping in unison to their knees. At the far back of the crowd, Marcia’s girls, accompanied by the musicians, sang a somber funeral hymn that harmonized with the insects’ renewed chirping.    
  
Poor, distraught Euphronia. There she knelt, wailing as she pulled her saffron-colored locks and beseeched her great goddess. Gaius would see that the woman was well taken care of, no matter what Luc’s final testament dictated.   
  
But what to do about the Caledonian?   
  
Dry-eyed and stoic, his hands clasped firmly over the small of his back, Bryaxis knelt with elegance as he mouthed silent prayers for his murdered master. Gaius suspected he already knew what Lucius had determined for Bryaxis in his will. He would have done the same for his boys.  
  
Marcia strolled over to her husband, followed by an attendant waving a large fan of feathers. “Greetings, Dominus. You look pale. Are you ill?”  
  
“I’m perfectly fine.” Gaius curled his right hand to hide his self-inflicted cuts. “Was your trip comfortable, Domina?”  
  
“Yes, it was. By the gods, the Petronii certainly have built themselves a resplendent tomb, haven’t they? A bit too majestic considering their status, perhaps.” With her hands on her hips, Marcia carefully studied the assembly of household servants and soldiers. “Gaius, nearly all of Lucius’s slaves are displaying proper hysterics, except for that one. Do you see how he’s not sobbing? That’s most disrespectful.”   
  
“Ignore him, Marcia.”   
  
“You’re not going to reprimand that boy for disregarding custom by refusing to mourn openly? His behavior is blasphemous.”  
  
“I said ignore it, wife.” Gaius felt his headache returning and rubbed his temples. “Luc’s slave has been punished enough, for fuck’s sake.”   
  
He turned around and shouted. “Varius, take ten men and fetch the swine! Be sure to observe the proper handling of the sacred beasts. The rest of you begin preparations for the sacrifice.”   
  
As the servants dashed about, arranging stools, small tables, jugs of drink, and serving dishes, a covered litter carried on two gilded poles by six guards approached the tomb from the opposite direction of the Tiburtina.   
  
Gaius removed his hood and shielded his eyes. “Marcia, is that who I think it is?”  
  
“Your grandmother.” She answered flatly.   
  
“By Pollux! You invited Avia?” He rubbed the bridge of his nose and pinched it.  
  
“I dispatched a courier to her estate with an invitation to join us. Gaius, she’s frail and she won’t be on this earth for much longer. Besides, it’s a family gathering and you know how she loves a feast.”  
  
“Avia will fucking skin me alive for not visiting her since well before the last war.”  
  
“I thought it time you two reconnected.”  
  
“Why is it that women insist on meddling in their husbands’ affairs?” He groaned and offered his elbow.  
  
“Because we are the mortal daughters of vindictive Juno. Imagine what horrors I could concoct if you were ever unfaithful to me.” She countered and took his arm.   
  
“Are you still harboring ill-will towards our fair Vibia Sabina?”  
  
“Gaius, your entanglement with Vibia Sabina happened long before our marriage. The poor misfortunate girl is married to Publius now. But if you’re asking me do I trust our delicate imperial flower, your first love, my answer is no. I would be lying if I said I did.”  
  
“I never loved Sabina.”  
  
“She loved you. She still does.” Marcia stopped and asked, “Gaius, have you ever truly loved anyone?”  
  
Without responding, he pulled her forward as they approached the litter. The well-dressed attendants carefully lowered the ornate couch to the ground. When the tallest of her guards held back the ivory curtain, she emerged in all her patrician magnificence.   
  
Avia looked well, given that she’d lived over seventy-five summers. Although her short frame was thinner, her tawny hair now stark white, and her once beautiful face wrinkled like a dried plum, her light amber eyes still twinkled with the vitality of a young girl, just as they’d always had.  
  
She straightened her bulky silk dress and declared. “So gracious of you to wait for my arrival, my dears. What a marvelous day for an outing.”  
  
Gaius spoke softly into Marcia’s left ear as he nodded toward the litter. “I adore this woman; she protected me, as much as she could. And I cherish you, Marcia, but I will never give you anything more than what I already offer. It’s best to remember that our marriage is an amicable and mutually-beneficial political arrangement.”  
  
“You may take comfort that I’ve never wanted anything from you except your respect, Gaius.”  
  
“If you wish to keep my respect, wife, never surprise me like this again. I will not be ambushed, however sincere the intentions might be. Understood?” He marched over to his grandmother and bowed his head before he kissed her hand. “Greetings, most beloved Avia.”  
  
“Most beloved? Do you think you can mend my forsaken heart with platitudes, you ungrateful tadpole?” She jerked out of his grasp, clenched his bicep with her bony, weathered hand, and scolded him. “I should cuff you, you know. Right here, in front of your veterans and your slaves. Would serve you right! Does the triumphant Lion of the Lucky Fourth think himself too grand to pay a visit to his poor old grandmother? Is Memmia Cornelia now unworthy of the dutiful respect of her own damn grandson?”  
  
“My apologies, Avia. I was preoccupied.” He leaned down and pulled back his auburn curls to expose his left ear. “Strike me in public for my crimes. I deserve it. I’d expected far worse than a blow to the head.”  
  
“It’s early. I reserve the right to punish you more severely after we eat, you cheeky sprog. You always were trouble, Rufus.” Together, they turned to greet Marcia when she came forward. Memmia extended her hand. “Greetings, my dearest Marcia Servilia. Your complexion is positively radiant. The summer winds agree with you.”  
  
Marcia bowed as she pressed the elderly woman’s angular knuckles to her forehead. “Thank you, Avia. We’re both happy that you could join us for this somber occasion. Such a tragedy.”  
  
“Indeed, the best men of Rome are often taken from us far too soon.”  
  
They both stared at Gaius, who merely raised his hands and shrugged before he wrapped his arm around his grandmother’s shoulders.   
  
“Avia, let’s move over to the shade. You look parched. We’ve brought our best Falernian. Come.” Gaius insisted, as he led her over to a serving table that had been set up by cluster of chestnut trees. “Ah, see? It’s much more refreshing under this canopy of leaves. May I pour you some wine?”   
  
She nodded and pointed. “By Castor—is that young Plinius over there? I haven’t seen him in ages. The poor lad has lost much of his hair, hasn’t he? No wonder he wears that ridiculous brimmed hat.”   
  
Memmia took the cup from Gaius’s outstretched hand and lowered her voice. “Listen, Gaius, there have been reports that you put on quite a spectacle today, parading your guards through the Forum. What, in the name of Zeus, was the purpose of that recklessness? And why are you wearing that armor? Are you deliberately trying to anger the emperor? This is not the Republic. Is my foolish cousin, Tacitus, whispering fantasies of revolution in your ears?”  
  
Exasperated, Gaius took a deep breath and explained. “First of all, this is my parade armor, not my field gear. I’ve donned my ceremonial breastplate to honor the spirit of Counselor Petronius, not to inflame the palace. And Tacitus is not your cousin, Avia. You may share the same family name but he’s not a patrician. He’s descended from a far less noble line of the Cornelia family.”  
  
“Armor is armor, Gaius.” Memmia scoffed. “You’re fooling no one, certainly not me. And Tacitus is a better man than most of the patrician Cornelii boars of late that I’ve had the misfortune to know. If I say he’s my cousin, you will not correct me, Rufus.”  
  
“Fine.” Gaius waved his hand in surrender and continued. “Neither Tacitus nor I believe in some farcical return to the days of the Republic. You know exactly what I was doing—demonstrating that I intend to find Lucius’s murderers whatever the cost. I have the means and the swords to insure that justice is served, whether our esteemed emperor cares to assist me or not.”  
  
“By our holiest gods, Gaius! Is that what you believe—that Marcus has no interest in avenging this horrendous crime? He treasured Lucius’s talents and loyalty. Marcus Ulpius Traianus will hunt down those criminals, whether you throw a childish tantrum through the Forum or not, you daft turnip.”  
  
“It wasn’t all that long ago that the Forum was filled with armed men fighting for justice. My grandfather—my father's father, your esteemed husband—fought valiantly alongside the Divine Vespasian’s allies. Was he throwing a childish tantrum?”  
  
“Your grandfather was an honorable man but an impetuous idealist. Do you truly wish to return this city to the chaos and bloodshed that plagued Rome during the dark days of civil war? Stop behaving like a spoiled stripling and visit the palace as soon as we’ve completed the rites for our poor Lucius.”  
  
“I will call on the emperor tomorrow.” Gaius growled as he crossed his arms.  
  
“You, Gaius Fabius, will pay your respects to our revered emperor today. Go to the palace and grovel at Marcus’s feet if you must. Considering the terrible circumstances, he might forgive your puerile behavior.”  
  
“Yes, Avia.” Gaius looked up at the fluttering silver undersides of the chestnut tree leaves. “I seem to be asking damn near everyone for forgiveness these days.”  
  
“Perhaps the gods will grant it. It’s important to mind the counsel of your elders, Gaius, especially guidance from your grandmother.” She shook her skeletal finger in his face. “I survived far worse nightmares than you could ever imagine—remember that.”  
  
As his eyes softened with affection, Gaius uncrossed his arms and caressed her painted cheek with the back of his hand. “I remember that you, Avia, were my light of hope during my wretched youth. You taught me who I was, who I was obligated to become. I will forever be grateful, and I will always love you.”  
  
Memmia covered his hand with her slender fingers and squeezed. “We survived those wicked tests of our fortitude, my strong boy, and for that we both must give praise to Fortuna. We’ve persevered through adversity and we’ve triumphed because we are Cornelii.”  
  
Gaius chuckled as he leaned down to lightly peck her on the other cheek. “I am a proud Fabius, Avia.”  
  
She swallowed and inhaled deeply though her nose, her tiny frame coiled tighter than the springs on a catapult. Gaius chewed his lower lip as he waited for his grandmother to launch her barrage of criticisms.   
  
“You may be a Fabius but you are  _also_  a Cornelius, a direct descendent of the famous Scipio line of our family no less. The Cornelii are more than equal in achievement to the great Fabii! All of Rome knows that it was the men of the Cornelii Scipiones who led our brave legions into battle against the Carthaginian viper and razed their wicked city down to the infertile African sands.” Memmia paused to reload more barbed missiles. “Today, you make lavish offerings at this pompous plebian tomb, but when was the last time you sacrificed before the ancient sepulcher of the Cornelii Scipiones?”  
  
Gaius exhaled and tried not to roll his eyes. “I make dutiful and generous sacrifices at the mausoleum of the Fabii whenever I visit the capital, Avia.”  
  
“And yet you neglect your obligations to the spirits of your other noble forefathers. Do you even know where our tomb is located?” Memmia asked sarcastically, as she brushed away a wispy strand of white hair that had somehow escaped the hairpins of her carefully arranged coiffure. “Remember, Gaius, that  _all_  of your esteemed ancestors are watching you. Judging you.”   
  
She drained the last of her drink and fussed with her cumbersome robes. “At least I can thank venerable Saturn that you were blessed with robust Cornelian testicles, Rufus; you certainly didn’t inherit your grandfather’s flimsy, freckled Fabian balls. Now light the cooking fires, refill my wine cup, and sacrifice the blasted pigs. I’m old, I’m famished, and I want some damn pork.”  
  


~~~~~

 

 ** _Gaius Fabius’s seaside villa, Campania_**  
  
He’d been awake since before dawn, roused from sleep by a vivid fantasy. It had felt so real—the wet warmth of the Roman’s mouth devouring his naked body with demanding kisses, bruising his skin. He’d even sat up and checked for marks on his thighs and hipbones before collapsing back onto the mattress.   
  
It had felt so fucking real.  
  
As the first hint of sunshine crept in through the cracks in the window shutter, Allerix lay panting on his bed, restless and randy and thirsty.  Soon, another hot day of mucking out the stalls and feeding the horses would begin. Rubbing the twisted rope of silver around his neck, he stared at the ceiling and counted them, again. Nine wooden beams—no more, no less. Nothing had changed; he was still a captive trapped far from home. Absentmindedly, he ran his fingertip over the inscribed words on the bronze fugitive tag and shut his eyes.  
  
 _Paulus. To be returned to the house of Gaius Fabius Rufus._  
  
He was no longer a free man; he was no longer a man at all. He was property. A war trophy owned by the general who destroyed his people, owned by the man to whom he’d willingly surrendered his body. But Allerix had surrendered much more than his flesh. He was losing focus on his plan for revenge.  
  
But he couldn’t stop thinking about the bastard.   
  
Dreaming about him.  
  
Yearning for his possessive touch.   
  
What was this madness?  
  
How, by mighty Zalmoxis, had the Roman pierced his armor? How had he penetrated the invisible barricade that Alle had built long ago to shield his young heart from his brother’s hatred and his father’s disappointment? Rufus must be a powerful sorcerer, or perhaps a demon. An intoxicating, devious demon.  
  
Allerix lifted his finger off the metal tag and slowly traced patterns through the drops of sweat that had pooled in the crevices of his taut abdomen; he was smoldering from the inside out. He closed his eyes tighter, and imagined the commands drip like globs of honey off the Roman’s tongue.   
  
 _“Surrender to me,_ _căţel_ _._ _Obey your master.”_  
  
His pulse thumping in his eardrums, Allerix flipped over onto his stomach. He clenched the thin bed sheets with both hands and squeezed the folds as if they were Gaius’s fiery copper locks tangled between his fingers. He buried his damp scruffy face into his straw-filled pillow; memories of the lavender-perfumed water in those luxurious private baths filled his nostrils. Grinding his throbbing prick into the mattress, Alle writhed and rocked up and down on his small lonely bed.   
  
Fuck.   
  
He needed more. He needed release. Allerix rolled over on his back and brushed his hand down his body to grip his engorged shaft. He pumped hard and fast before he paused to pinch the sensitive skin below his wet slit; a desperate guttural groan burst from between his lips.  
  
It wasn’t enough. He needed him—his mouth, his hands, his heat—but Rufus was hundreds of miles away pining for his dead lover.   
  
He arched his back and spread his knees apart; the air tickled the whispers of dark curls below his balls. Moaning softly at first and then louder, Allerix watched his left hand pump fast, sliding the dark foreskin up and down, until the head of his cock glistened. As he teetered near the edge, he reached down with his right hand and pushed two fingers through the tight ring of muscle. Almost. Fucking. There.   
  
“I surrender, butcher!”  
  
“Butcher? Shit, does Dom know you call him that?” Nic asked in his familiar snide tone from the doorway, and Allerix’s hard penis shriveled and withdrew faster than a startled eel as he quickly pulled the bed covers over his exposed and painfully unsatisfied lust.   
  
“What—what are you doing here?”  
  
“I brought some wine that was left over from the morning sacrifices. I thought we'd share these dregs before chores.” Nic held up a plain ceramic jug and arched both of his slender dark blond brows. “Well, to be honest, I brought it up here for me to savor  _solo_ before work begins, but your lewd moaning was too hard to resist. Dom must adore your fucking hot whimpering. Anyhow, sorry to disturb you. Carry on.”  
  
“No, no. It’s all right.” Allerix sat up, wiped his sweaty face, and asked, “You have wine? Come on then—share. I’m parched and you owe me now.”  
  
Nicomedes sauntered over to the window and opened the shutter. The rosy glimmer of the sunrise reflected off the sea and illuminated a corner of the small room.  
  
“Budge up.” Nic ordered as he hiked up his green tunic to sit down. With a grunt, Allerix scooted his bum over to make room on the narrow mattress for his fellow pleasure slave. Nic’s lips were stained red from the wine, and his long flaxen hair, loose and messy, hung down past his shoulders. The blond always looked as though he’d just been fucked stupid over a table.  
  
As Nic handed him the jug, Allerix fought the words but they spilled out to mock him. “How much longer before the Roman finishes honoring his dead friend and returns home?”   
  
Shit, he sounded like a love-struck maiden. Alle cursed himself as he guzzled a long swallow of sacrificial wine. It was bitter but satisfying.  
  
“That Roman is  _Dominus_ , Dacian. I thought you were getting better with proper address. And why do you care when Dom returns? Do you miss him?” Nic puckered his tinted lips in a mock kiss as he poked Allerix’s shoulder. “S’all right though. We all miss him. Fucking boring doing nothing but chores. Even Atticus gets restless, spending all his free time tossing off his wrinkled sausage. Did you know he has scrolls of brothel drawings stashed behind the cupboard in his room? Perverted old badger.”  
  
Allerix laughed. “You must miss Max.”  
  
“I do.” Nicomedes sucked on his lower lip and replied with a loving smile. “I miss him more than anything. Dom and Max will return soon, but they can’t leave the capital until Counselor Petronius’s will is unsealed and read publicly in the courts. Dom said he’d be home near the Kalends. That’s less than… ” Nic counted on his fingers. “Ten days.”  
  
“Ten days.” Alle repeated.  
  
“I’d wager that Dom is counting the days as well. He despises Rome in the summertime. Too bloody hot.”  
  
Allerix handed the wine jug back to Nic. “Have you been to Rome?”  
  
“Never, and I don’t ever want to go there—it’s packed with thieves and murderers. Max says the capital is worse than Neapolis, and Neapolis is a rat-infested sewer.” Nicomedes tossed back a gulp, wiped the burgundy drops off of his smooth chin, and added. “Did you know that Simon was born in Rome? He lived there for a few years with that witch, Callidora. Dom had Simon sent down here before his balls dropped.”  
  
Alle smiled and asked, “So Max is the only one who’s been to Rome?”  
  
“When he’s not on campaign, Dom likes to keep his favorite close by his side.” After he passed the wine jug back to Alle, Nic scooted down towards the foot of the bed and rested his cheek on Alle’s chest. “Max used to be Dom’s favorite, but you already know that, right? Max lived at Dom’s house up in Rome, and Dom took him to parties at the palace. Dancers and acrobats…”   
  
“And soup in tortoise shells. I remember. Why didn’t Dominus take Simon on this trip?”  
  
Nic glanced up and smirked. “Our curly-haired pup isn't the favorite anymore.” He ran his hand down Alle’s side and squeezed his knee through the bedcovers. “Dom fancies you more, Dacian. It’s those heavy-lidded, seductive eyes and that arrogant, pouty mouth, not to mention your perfect arse.” Nic reached up and rubbed a shiny strand of Alle’s black mane between his thumb and forefinger. “Your hair’s getting long; I can braid it with ribbons if you like.”  
  
“I’m not a woman.” Allerix scowled. He placed the empty jug on the small side table and lifted up his slave tag. “I’m a prisoner of war.”  
  
Shaking his head, Nicomedes playfully tugged Alle’s dark chest hairs and smiled. “I’m fond of you, Dacian—you’re beautiful and feisty and all furry—but you’re a runaway slave, caught and collared, not a war prisoner. You’re fucking lucky to be alive. But you’ll be Dom’s favorite bed warmer once he comes home. I see how he looks at you; we all do. Dom might take  _you_  to Rome someday—that is, if you ever learn proper behavior and follow his rules.”  
  
Alle bit his thumbnail. “Is there a formal ceremony or something?”  
  
“For what?”  
  
“For being named the favorite?”  
  
Nic laughed so hard that snot bubbled from his nostrils. “Shit, no! It’s not like when a slave is freed. There’s no official audience with the property magistrates; there’s no arcane ritual or floppy freedom cap. You're still a fucking slave.”   
  
“So how will I know?”  
  
Nicomedes shook with hysterics again before he wiped his eyes. “Do you expect the herald to announce it in the forum? Listen, you’ll know when it happens—Dom will call you to his bedchamber and ravish you and in the morning, he’ll gift you a special token—and then Atticus, who spies on fucking everyone around here, will inform Max and Max will tell us. And then you're the favorite. At least, that’s how it happened with Simon. The lucky twit received two gold bangles that night.”  
  
“I’ve seen them.” Allerix mumbled. “Simon treasures those bracelets.”  
  
“He’ll get to keep the baubles, but nothing else.” Nic shrugged, before he licked the dip of Alle’s breastbone. “Except some delicious memories.”  
  
As Allerix silently mulled over Nic’s explanation, Nic rolled onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow. “Let’s talk about something more interesting, like cock sucking. Max says you’re nearly as talented as me. He said that you can curl and flick the tip of your tongue like a bloody snake. Now ,  _I_  can squeeze my cheeks and then, with my teeth…” Nic parted his lips and pressed Alle’s covered, flaccid dick with his warm palm. “Let's share some of our fellatio tricks, Dacian.”   
  
“Are you mad?” Allerix protested and half-heartedly pushed Nic’s hand off of his crotch. “My prick is not getting locked in a cage.”  
  
Nicomedes leaned forward, his lips hovering close to Alle’s mouth. “You know that there are cages designed for pleasure, right? Years ago, after Theodorus was sent to Rome, Dom gave Max a cage for Saturnalia that’s shaped like snarling sea serpent. Max showed it to me. It’s solid gold with red rubies for eyes and pearls for teeth. It must be worth a fortune. Max says it feels fucking amazing.”  
  
Blood rushed to Alle’s groin. “So, does the favorite get any…”  
  
“Any what?”  
  
“Any  _real_  rewards, other than shiny trinkets?”  
  
Nic laughed again before dropping his voice to a sultry hush. “The favorite spends most nights in Dom’s bed, drinking his wine and tasting his mouth and whispering desires and counsel into his ear. That’s its own reward, isn’t it?”  
  
Warmth rushed to Allerix’s groin; he stifled a groan as he shuffled under the bedcovers to try and hide his blatant erection.   
  
Nic smiled knowingly and purred. “You do know that Dom allows us to pleasure each other with our hands, right?”  
  
Allerix nodded and licked his lips. "Yes, I know.” With an exasperated whimper, he threw off the bedcovers. “Nic, please touch me. I’m so fucking horny.”  
  
“See! You’re already demanding favors like a true, spoiled favorite. Although you have better manners than most, barbarian.”   
  
The tip of his tongue poking out from between his lips, Nic reached down to caress Alle’s full balls, rolling them gently between his fingers until Allerix wriggled and groaned wantonly.   
  
“You have a beautiful cock, Dacian. Thick and hard and smooth.” Nic whispered as he rose to his knees and sat back on his heels between Alle’s spread legs. He wrapped both hands around the base of Alle’s erection, and squeezed before languidly stroking his length.   
  
“Faster.” Alle pleaded as he watched Nic’s expert machinations tease pearls of juice from the slit of his prick.  
  
“Yes, sir.”   
  
Alle arched his neck until his cleft chin pointed to the ceiling. He swallowed and closed his eyes.   
  
“Are you thinking about Dom?” Nic teased, as his tempo sped up to a furious pace, his talented hands twisting and pulling Alle's shaft. “Are you pretending that this is Dom’s hand pumping your cock?”  
  
“Yes.” Alle gasped and accidentally knocked the wine jug off the table with his left arm. It fell to the floor with a loud crash.   
  
“Dom loves to stroke us until we’re about to burst.” Nic lowered his voice until it was nearly inaudible. “Sometimes, he sucks us off while he fucks our bumhole with his fingers. Not every master is so generous with his whores. Has Dom spanked you yet, Dacian?”  
  
“No.” Allerix lifted his hips higher; sweat streamed downed his temples and tickled the tender skin behind his ears. He was so close.   
  
“You want him to spank you, don’t you? You want him to take you to parties and fuck you senseless in front of his friends, don’t you?” Nic slowed his pace, squeezing harder with every excruciating stroke. “Come on, Dacian. Give it up. You want to be Dom’s favorite, don’t you?”  
  
“Shit, yes. Yes!” Allerix screamed, as thick strings of hot seed spurted out and landed on his stomach and chest. His entire body shivered uncontrollably; he covered his eyes with his forearm. When his breathing slowed, Alle turned his head towards the doorway and opened his eyes.  
  
He stood in the shadows at the threshold to Alle's room; his emerald eyes wide and wet, his shoulders slumped in despair. Alle booted Nic off the end of the bed and sighed.  
  
“Simon.”  
  
Simon said nothing. He covered his mouth with his fist and turned to run down the hall, the pitter-patter of his bare feet gradually fading to silence as he bounded down the staircase to the common room. Spewing a string of curses, Nic chased after him.  
  
“Fuck. Simon, come back! We were just having a lark. Don’t be a jealous little twat, you twerp.”   
  
After Nic left, Allerix lay back down and pulled the crumpled bedcovers over his spent and sweat-drenched body. As he stared at the ceiling once more, the pang of guilt in his gut boiled over to selfish rage. He raked his fingers through his thick ebony hair, scratching furiously until his scalp burned.   
  
He had to focus; he had to clear his mind of these meaningless distractions. He squeezed his eyes shut and let go of the shame and the hunger and the regret until he had no feelings left except his burning lust for revenge. Until he felt nothing for his Roman captor, save contempt.  
  
Suddenly, Alle sat up and snatched the lumpy bed cushion out from underneath his head. He punched it, over and over, until he was forced to stop to catch his breath. “Friend or no friend, you will lose this contest, Simon. I will be the butcher’s favorite whore because I have no other option. I’m either torn to shreds by beasts in their arena, or I kill the monster and earn immortality. Either way, I die. But I intend to die honorably.”   
  
With tears streaming down his flushed cheeks, Allerix lifted the pillow to his face and whispered. “Hear me, my gods. Guide me through this treacherous passage to my eternal salvation and grant me the wiles to win the Roman’s trust.  I beg you to make him blind to my games, I implore you to make Gaius Fabius Rufus mine to seduce, mine to betray.”  
  
A strong beam of sunlight streamed in, a blinding reality that the cruel summer sun had climbed higher in the morning sky. Somewhere outside, a cock crowed to celebrate the beginning of another scorching, humid day. Another day, far from home.   
  
Another day alone.  
  
Alle threw off the blankets one last time and stood up, stark naked and resilient and exhausted. It was time for Allerix, collared property of Gaius Fabius, to get dressed and go to the stables to shovel shit.   
  
~~~~~


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note 2: Due to some work obligations, the next draft chapter probably won't be posted until late February. Thanks for your patience and support. I hope you enjoy.**

  
  


  
  
**_Gaius Fabius’s seaside villa, Campania_**  
  
“Dacian! Simon! It’s time to eat!”  
  
Allerix tossed the last forkful of hay onto the pile and wiped his brow with his forearm before taking a long swig of cool water. His shoulders ached and the muscles along the backs of his arms were sore; he’d hauled countless buckets of water to the troughs, mucked out every one of the stalls, and restacked mountains of scattered hay. It was backbreaking work, but he’d sleep well tonight. Day after day of physical labor in the humid heat and bright summer sun was transforming Allerix’s alabaster body, distracting his troubled mind. And those terrifying nightmares of his capture and rape in some distant field were less frequent.   
  
Allerix, second son of Thiamarkos, was healing.   
  
When Nicomedes hollered a second time, Alle propped the wooden handle of the rake against the wall and ran out through the open barn door. The sun was past its zenith in the sky; Plautus should have plates of food waiting for them back in the common room.  
  
“Did you stack the hay properly?” Nic sounded more bored than concerned as he untied the leather band wrapped around his thick blond plait and shook his wavy hair loose.   
  
Allerix fell into step beside him. “Yes. I finished the chores and I’m hungry.”  
  
“After our playtime earlier, I expect you’re bloody starving.” Nic jested, before he furrowed his brow and glanced over Alle’s shoulder. “Where’s our little twat gone to, then? I thought he was with you.”   
  
Alle’s stomach grumbled. “Simon was at the stables earlier, but he left. Do you think he’s still angry about…?”   
  
“Nah, I had a talk with him. It was just a fucking hand job, for shit's sake. I promised that I give  _him_ one tonight.” Nic winked and turned back towards the stables. “Simon! C’mon now, it’s time to eat!”  
  
From somewhere in the distance came a faint but surly, “I’m busy!”  
  
Nic raised an eyebrow before clutching Allerix’s elbow and dragging him back down the gentle slope and past the barn to a patchwork of animal pens at the far end of the stables. In one fold, fifteen or more colorful goats with long hair and curved, twisted horns mulled about. Each animal wore a thick leather collar around its neck. Allerix touched his own silver slave collar before shielding his nose from the stench.  
  
“What, in the name of the most holy Penates, are you doing, Simon?” Nic asked with amused curiosity.  
  
Squatting beside the hindquarters of a white goat in the near corner, Simon squeezed the teat of the albino nanny until milk streamed into the wooden bucket. “What does it look like I’m doing?” Simon pushed his curls off his sweaty face and looked up. He was still angry; resentment burned red in his young green eyes. “Plautus said that if we return to the stable house without fresh goat milk, we don’t get fed.”  
  
“Plautus can’t do that without Dom’s permission. He can't starve us, can he?” Nicomedes cocked his head and scratched his scalp.  
  
Simon shrugged. “He threatened to. You know, I could use some fucking help.”   
  
Nicomedes raised his hands in protest as he took a step back. “I am not going anywhere near those filthy beasts. This tunic was laundered just yesterday.” He lifted the cloth to his nose and sniffed. “It still smells all fresh and clean.”  
  
Allerix lowered his stubbled chin and exhaled. He was famished and tired. “I’ll help you, Simon.”  
  
Nic patted Alle on the back. “Well, aren’t you a charitable fellow. Go and fetch a milk pail from that stack over there.” Nicomedes scanned the small herd, clearly looking for a specific target and pointed. “And Dacian, you see that brown and white one by the tree? She’s old and slow, but she’s Dom’s favorite bitch. Her name is Terentia. Dom says that nanny goat still produces the best milk of the whole lot. Start with her, but don’t squeeze too hard, right?”  
  
Allerix nodded and wriggled out of his work boots. With a bucket and a generous handful of grain, he pushed open the gate and stomped barefoot through the sludge to the opposite end of the pen. It hadn’t rained in days, but the lingering mud, combined with goat shit and piss, squished through his toes like sticky raisin pudding.  
  
“Have you milked a goat before, Alle?” Simon asked over his shoulder as he took hold of the nanny goat’s other teat.  
  
“No, I haven’t. Where I’m from, farm girls tend to these foul-smelling creatures.”  
  
“Well, you’re here now. Get used to being a milk maiden.” Simon spat back, his tone wavering between indifferent and caustic. Simon was changing as well.   
  
Cautiously, Allerix walked up to Terentia. The nanny goat cried and eyed him, her prominent rectangular pupils widening with distrust. He patted her flank and reassured her. “Easy there, old girl. This won’t hurt, I think.”  
  
With an eye on Simon’s machinations, Allerix crouched and took hold of one of Terentia’s teats. Her udder was swollen like a wine skin before a holiday feast. With a firm grip, he rolled his fingers down the length of gland; a thick stream of milk squirted into the wooden bucket. Wide-eyed with delight, Allerix exclaimed, “I did it! It worked!”  
  
Lounging across a bench outside the pen, Nic hollered. “It’s a fucking milk goat, you twit! It’s supposed to work!”  
  
"All right. Now for the other one." Wearing a satisfied grin, Allerix rubbed his hands together as he prepared to tackle the second teat. Suddenly, the old nanny goat took a step to the side and kicked him in the chest. More shocked than anything else, he fell backwards into the squishy ooze.  
  
“Argh! What did you do that for?” Allerix yelled at the animal, as he pulled himself up out of the slime and wiped his dirtied hands on his short tunic. “Fucking disgusting.”  
  
Off to the side, Simon snickered while Nic cackled until his laughter dissolved into a coughing fit.  
  
Allerix planted his hands on his hips and exhaled. “Listen, I’m going to milk you, Terentia, and you’re going to cooperate. No more daft shenanigans.”  
  
After he turned around to retrieve his bucket, Terentia squared her shoulders, lowered her head and butted the easy target that was Allerix’s perfectly round, mud-covered bum. He was launched face first into a deep pool of slimy manure. Dazed and humiliated, he rolled up onto his knees and spat out a glob of muddy saliva.   
  
“Enough mucking about with that goat, Dacian. Let’s finish the job and go eat.” Nic barely got the words out before he doubled over. Simon pressed the back of his hand against his mouth and laughed so hard that his brunette curls bounced.  
  
“You think this is funny?” Allerix asked them before he rose to his feet and coughed up more mud.   
  
Simon stood up, still shaking from hysterics. “It’s bloody hilarious. Dom would laugh his balls off if he could see you now, all covered in mud and manure—his poor little peasant cub knocked on his arse by a mean old nanny goat.”   
  
Allerix sloshed through the muck until he was within an arm’s distance of Simon’s shit-eating grin. “I offered to help you with this chore, Simon, and this is your gratitude? Finish milking your bitch before I knock that ingrate smirk off your face.”  
  
“Well, well—our Dacian has a nasty little temper.” Simon snorted before he rushed forward and stiff-armed Allerix back two steps. “You don’t order me around.” Simon stormed up to Alle until he was in his face and poked him in the chest. “You don’t even belong here, Alle. Those soldiers should have killed you when they captured you. I wager that Dom gets bored of your games and sells you to a whorehouse in Neapolis before winter.”  
  
Confused by the commotion, most of the goats meandered aimlessly around the pen, bleating loudly, while two smaller animals huddled by Terentia in the far corner. Allerix sneered and shoved Simon, hard; Simon nearly fell backwards over one of the shrieking beasts.   
  
Alle clutched Simon’s forearm and pulled him close. “You know you’re right—those bastards should have killed me,  _pup_.” He snarled before releasing his grip, a grip so harsh that his fingers had reddened Simon’s skin.  
  
Nicomedes walked over to the fence and yelled. “Lads, lads—no fighting now!”   
  
“Let them fight.” Out of nowhere, Felix and Plautus sidled up on either side of Nicomedes and rested their elbows on the wooden railing. “We haven’t enjoyed much entertainment around here lately. Let the baby bed warmers settle this spat with a bit of wrestling.” Felix cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted. “You can wrestle, can’t you, heathen?”  
  
“A wrestling match?” Nic asked.  
  
“Why not? But we need a prize for the victor. Do you have any ideas, my dear Plautus?”  
  
Plautus chortled and raised his hand like an official at the start of a circus race. “The winner of today’s contest will receive an extra serving of the midday meal  _and_  a healthy cup of wine.”  
  
As the bleating goats ambled around and between them, Allerix extended his arms out to the sides and circled his opponent. “I want that damn wine, Simon.”  
  
Simon pushed an alarmed goat out of his way. “I want it more, Alle.”   
  
“Let’s see you grapple like Olympians! Tunics off, or no one wins any wine!” Felix ordered with lusty glee. As if Nic were invisible, he leaned over him to talk with Plautus. “Might as well enjoy some flesh, right?”  
  
“I prefer ladies’ bosoms, my dear Felix, but what’s the harm? Besides, the scoundrels are already well on their way to ruining their clothes.”  
  
“Exactly—what’s the harm? Get naked, pretty pets! Oi, care to make a wager, my old friend? A sestertius, perhaps?”  
  
Plautus eyed the slaves over. “It’s a fairly even match, though the Dacian seems to have bulked up, hasn’t he? Hmm… my coin is on the barbarian, cunning bastards that they are.”  
  
“Excellent. I’ll take the curly-haired Greek faun. Begin the match!”  
  
His emerald eyes fixed on Allerix, Simon stripped off his tunic and threw it aimlessly towards the fence. There was rage in his gaze. This wasn’t about any wine.   
  
After peeling off his own shit-soaked tunic, Allerix spread his arms wider and wiggled his fingers, taunting him. “Come on, then. Come at me. Let’s see how a pampered Greek slut fights.”  
  
They circled each other again, weaving through the roaming goat obstacles. When the path between them cleared, Simon crouched and rushed forward. He tried to wrap his arms around Allerix’s waist, but Alle was faster and jumped to the side. Simon stumbled, bumped his bum against another large goat, lost his balance, and fell into a pile of manure. He propped himself up on his elbows and snapped. “Is that how Dacians try to win a match? By cheating?”  
  
“It’s not cheating; it’s a simple evasive maneuver. Here, let me help you up, Simon.”  
  
“Sod off!” Simon pushed himself up onto his knees and paused to catch his breath. He stood up, dashed forward and grabbed a hold of Allerix’s wrist, twisting his arm. “Where’s your evasive maneuver now, barbarian?” He mocked as he jerked and bent Allerix’s arm behind his back until Alle fell to his knees in the slop.   
  
Simon was surprisingly strong, Alle noticed. And athletic. And he was really fucking pissed off. Allerix figured the boy had a right to be angry. All these slaves had a right to be angry.  
  
“Simon, I want to tell you something.” Allerix whispered. When Simon leaned down to listen, Alle grabbed him around the neck with his free arm and flipped Simon over on his back into the muck with a splash. He crawled over, pressed Simon’s chest down with his forearm, and mumbled. “I had a sadistic bastard of an older brother, Simon; I know how to defend myself. You’re going to get hurt unless you concede right now.”  
  
“I can fight dirty too, Alle.” Simon threatened before he rammed Allerix in the balls with his knee; a flash of blinding white light and then excruciating pain ripped through Alle’s body. He fell over in agony, both hands cradling his battered groin. A collective groan of sympathy rose from the crowd of spectators, which had grown to include a few curious field hands back from the orchards. Trying not to vomit up bile, Alle raised his trembling hand and extended his finger to flash the surrender signal. “I yield.”  
  
“Yield?” Simon pulled himself up out of the mud and moved back. “You’re can't fucking yield. Get on your feet and fight me!”  
  
When Allerix caught his breath, he gasped. “Simon, I don’t want to fight you. The only fucking thing I want is to go home. I don’t want their shitty wine. I don’t want to be here at all!”  
  
Simon dropped and straddled Allerix’s abdomen. Face to face, their noses practically touching, he took hold of Alle’s silver torque collar and yanked it. “Bollocks! You don’t want to leave. Why would you leave when Dom’s gifting you precious tokens of his affection like this costly silver necklace?”  
  
Struggling to breathe, his testicles throbbing in pain, Allerix tried to squirm out from under Simon’s weight but he was pinned. “Tokens—tokens of his affection? Are you mad? It’s a fucking slave collar. I’m a piece of property, a disgrace to my people. There’s no honor in being a sex slave, Simon.”  
  
His lips quivering, Simon’s face turned red as he pressed his other palm over his own heart. Tears streamed down through the mud, creating a pattern of stripes over his young cheeks. “This—what did you call me—this  _pampered Greek slut_  is a beloved and valued servant of the Lion of the Lucky Fourth. Dominus counts on—no, he treasures my obedience and loyalty. I have cartloads of honor, savage.”  
  
Simon let go of the collar, rose to his feet, and hissed as he kicked a heavy spray of mud at Allerix’s face. After he raked his slime-coated curls back with his fingers, Simon straightened his posture, lifted his chin, and picked up his bucket half-filled with milk. As he headed towards the stable house, wet clumps of lumpy sludge slid down the channel of his naked back. He paused before the group of onlookers, place the pail on the ground, and bowed.   
  
“I do hope you enjoyed the match, sirs. Here’s your fresh milk, Plautus, sir—there’s a few splashes of mud in it, I’m afraid. Now if it pleases you all, I need to wash off this filth before the midday meal.”  
  
“Bloody good show, lad! Off to the baths with you, then. You earned that wine—two hefty cups, I’d say.” Felix clapped like a drunken, giddy buffoon until Plautus pressed a bronze coin into Felix's palm, picked up the bucket and shook his head, before tottering towards the stable house kitchen. The field slaves glanced at each other and silently departed for their own midday feeding.   
  
Still winded as he tried to recover, Allerix sat up. Nic strolled over with an old, frayed horse blanket and wrapped it around his torso. Alle opened his mouth to protest but stopped.  
  
“Are you all right?” Pinching his nostrils, Nic asked as he dabbed the mud off Alle’s face.   
  
“I’ll live.” Allerix touched his aching groin and winced.   
  
“We’ll find you another tunic—a clean one—and don’t be too angry with Simon. The lad’s a dreamer, and he’s realizing that his dreams will never come true. It's a bit sad, actually, but it was kind of you to let him win, Alle.”  
  
“You just called me by my real name.” Alle snickered and readjusted the dusty cloth around his filthy torso “I didn’t let him win, Nic. I was a fool to think that he’d fight fair. Simon’s one cagey little shit.”  
  
“Simon’s a survivor. We’re all survivors, so far. By the gods, you stink. Here, let me help you up.” Nicomedes smiled and extended his hand.  
  
Grunting and groaning, Alle slowly pushed himself up to his feet with Nic’s assistance. He was fucking hungry, but first he needed a hot bath. Allerix, princeling of the house of Thiamarkos, had a pair of bruised balls and a load of goat shit lodged up his royal barbarian bumhole.  
  


~~~~~

 

 

  
**_The imperial residence on the Palatine Hill, Rome_**  
  
Gaius ascended the final treads of the broad marble stairs; with each step, the hobnails on his leather boots clattered across the polished stone. Every dazzling surface of the enormous entrance to the palace was sheathed in colorful veined slabs and gilded bronze ornaments. Marble and gold were the materials of Roman power. And no ruler—not even the Divine Augustus himself—had ever amassed such omnipotent imperial authority as had Marcus Ulpius Traianus. He was a living divinity. Thank the gods that Marcus was also a relatively just and merciful son of a bitch.  
  
When Gaius had returned home from the tombs out on the Tiburtina to bathe and change into his civilian clothes, he’d sent word ahead to the palace to inform the emperor of his impending visit. Marcus didn’t appreciate surprises; just up these stairs and down the corridor, the emperor was waiting for him in the imperial audience hall. If his former guardian received him from atop his elevated gold and ivory throne, Gaius was in deep shit.  
  
He hadn’t climbed the formal entrance stairs to the palace in well over a year; he wiped his sweaty palms and steadied his breathing. So many bitter memories haunted him—sounds and sights and awful sensations that he wished he could erase from his heart forever. After he reached the spacious landing, he rearranged the folds of his toga over his left arm and took a deep breath.   
  
 _Time to swat the hornet’s nest._  
  
“Lo! Halt in the name of our most revered Emperor Trajan.”  
  
The Praetorian Prefect, Tiberius Claudius Livianus, along with twenty armed men of the Guard, marched onto the wide landing with their hands on their sword hilts. A few of the young helmeted soldiers looked like fucking babies, their faces reddened by pimples, their wide eyes wary from inexperience.  
  
“How fortunate to run into you, Livianus. I want to thank you for stationing one of your men at the home of Lucius Petronius. We wouldn’t want something to happen to our poor bereaved widow, now would we?”  
  
Livianus’s eyes twitched. “Commander Fabius. My apologies but I wasn’t aware that you have an audience scheduled for today.”  
  
“Apparently you don’t have access to all of the emperor’s correspondence. Be careful what slips past your notice, Prefect.”  
  
“Are you certain that our esteemed emperor is expecting you? I’m quite confident that I would have been informed, Commander.”  
  
Gaius’s smirk disappeared as he gripped the handle of his dagger through the heavy wool fabric of his toga.  
  
“How confident of your position are you, exactly?”  
  
“For the love of all that is holy, Livianus! Step aside and let my noble brother pass!”   
  
In his colorful, gold-threaded garb, Publius sauntered out of the doorway to the left of the landing; with typical flourish and a wave of his arms, he ambled over and snarled into Livianus’s ear. “Should the Fates spare us from an untimely death, you do realize that either Gaius or I will be the next emperor of Rome, don’t you? Livianus, my dear boar, you've already managed to piss off the both of us.”  
  
Gaius chuckled. “How very imperial of you, Publius. I’m impressed.”  
  
“But are you intimidated, Gaius?” Publius jested, his arms outstretched for a hug, as the crowd of guards parted to clear a path.  
  
Gaius walked past them without so much as a glance and pulled his thespian brother into a tight embrace. “I’m bloody shaking in my boots, my dearest little brother.”  
  
After a long hug, Publius placed one hand on his own heart and the other on Gaius’s shoulder. “My despair over the murder of our dear associate, Lucius Petronius, can not be measured, Gaius. By the gods, I was with him, laughing and sipping some fabulous wine, only moments before he was cut down in the street.”  
  
“So I’ve heard. There will be justice, Publius. Of that I can assure you. There are many vile suspects that I could easily list off the top of my fucking head.” Gaius turned and addressed the Prefect. “Livianus, were you born in Spain like my ward brother and our noble emperor?”  
  
The Praetorian Prefect crinkled his brow at the bizarre question. “I am—I’m Italian, a proud native of the district of Latium.”  
  
“Ah, then we’re practically related. I was born in Rome, as were my ancestors. What is your birth town in our fair region of Latium?”  
  
Livianus puffed his chest out. “Tusculum, sir.”  
  
“Lovely place—fertile and most scenic. And you grew up there?”  
  
“Until I came of age and was sent to Rome to begin my career in the army, sir.”  
  
“I see. I will assume then, as you are a fellow native son of Latium and a career military man, that you will have no trouble understanding this.” Gaius raised his right hand, extended his middle finger, and twisted and jabbed his wrist in a most obscene manner.   
  
“I believe most soldiers understand that particular gesture, sir.”  
  
“Excellent. It happens to be one of my personal favorites.” Gaius curled his fingers into a fist. “If you ever block my path again, Prefect, I’ll yank all of those shiny insignia baubles along with your fuck ugly head out of your arsehole. Do you understand? Dismiss your men!”  
  
Livianus narrowed his beady eyes and replied, “Yes, Commander.”  
  
“Enough small talk with the help, Gaius. Come—the Emperor is waiting for us.” Publius seized his arm.  
  
“Us?”  
  
“He sent for me—in fact, he interrupted a most relaxing massage—when your request for an audience arrived. I’ve heard reports of your spectacular parade through the city this morning. So sorry to have missed it, Gaius. Care to let your dear brother in on the purpose of your visit to the palace? Another misguided performance, perhaps?”  
  
“I’m here to take it up the arse and have my ear chewed off, if I’m lucky.”  
  
“You’re the favorite of Fortuna. You are always lucky, brother.”  
  
Together they walked down the length of towering vaulted corridor, its floors carpeted with colorful pictures in mosaic: heroic myths and hunting scenes and gods frolicking with mortals. Six older Praetorians greeted them at the entrance to the imperial audience chamber and opened the massive bronze doors that stood nearly two stories high.  
  
“Commander Gaius Fabius Rufus and Legate Publius Aelius Hadrianus, Caesar!”  
  
As the doors closed behind them with a clang, Gaius exhaled a sigh of relief. Marcus wasn't seated on his throne; he was standing by one of the windows that overlooked the palatial gardens. The emperor smiled and waved them to enter.  
  
“Greetings, Caesar.” They mumbled simultaneously as they bowed.  
  
“Caesar? By bloody Jove’s randy cock, when my boys refer to me by my most formal title within the walls of the palace, then there must be trouble. Let’s retire to the couches, lads. Phaedimus, my dear, bring us some wine.”  
  
While Marcus reclined to get comfortable, Gaius and Publius sat on an adjacent couch, hip to hip, their hands buried in their laps. They acted more like remorseful scamps awaiting the paddle than two fully-grown successors to the purple.  
  
The attractive steward, Phaedimus, deposited a platter with a silver pitcher and cups on the low bronze table; a rosy-cheeked slave boy wearing a scandalously short tunic poured the wine. After Marcus brushed his hand over the curve of his cupbearer’s exposed prepubescent bum, he handed Gaius a silver drinking vessel and asked, “So tell me, what the fuck did you think you were doing this morning, Gaius Fabius? I assume you’re here to clarify the intent of your actions.”  
  
“I led my family out to the Tomb of the Petronii for sacrifices to honor my dead friend, Caesar.”  
  
“Is that all? Seems harmless enough. So why was it then that I’d heard you’d put on a pompous show of force down the damn Tiburtine road? And stop bloody calling me 'Caesar'!”  
  
“Yes, Dominus.” When Gaius paused to choose his next words, Publius nudged him with his elbow and spoke up.  
  
“Father, I’m sure that Gaius meant no offense. A procession of one’s household out to the suburban tombs is certainly not treasonous.”  
  
“What a curious circumstance we have here. Normally, Gaius is the one defending your questionable behavior, Publius.”  
  
Gaius coughed into his fist and declared. “I demand justice for Lucius Petronius Celsus, sir. I intend to use all of my authority to apprehend his murderers.”  
  
“You demand? Your  _authority_ , Gaius?”  
  
Marcus slowly rose to his staggeringly lofty height and looked down at them both. “Do you dare suggest that I have no intention of capturing Lucius Petronius’s murderers? My men are scouring the city, day and night. As we speak, my spies are investigating every person who might have been involved in this crime. What more would you have me do, Commander Fabius?”  
  
“Authorize me to hunt down the vermin, personally. My esteemed emperor.”  
  
“And have the leader of the Lucky Fourth and his veteran clients racing through the streets of Rome with their swords drawn? I need you on the battlefield, Gaius, not recklessly slicing your way through the wretched mob.”  
  
“The wars are over, sir.”  
  
“War is never over, my fierce lion cub.” Marcus reached down and ran his hand through Gaius’s amber locks. He tugged on a clump of Gaius’s curls; Gaius blinked and refolded his hands together over his crotch as the emperor continued. “We shall use this brief interlude to celebrate our great victories, replenish our legions, and stockpile sufficient supplies for the next campaign. We will return to the glory of the battlefields soon, my son.”  
  
“And peace also affords us the time to embellish our capital with splendid shrines to the gods.” Publius interjected a tad too enthusiastically, Gaius noted, but he was grateful for the change of topic. He’d be damned if Marcus would cause him to cower any more.  
  
“Have you reviewed my latest designs for the Forum temple, Father?” Publius asked.   
  
“I gave them to Apollodorus to evaluate.” Marcus replied with blatant disinterest as he slowly removed his hand from Gaius’s silky hair. “By Jupiter, how brilliantly you have grown, my dear boys. Now listen to me, both of you. I will find Lucius’s killers—and when I do, they will be publicly executed in a most gruesome manner after a fair trial. We have laws, for shit’s sake! Lucius Petronius understood that. He was a man of the law.”    
  
Marcus marched to the nearest window, pushed aside the curtains, and sighed. “I adored that handsome young man. Did you know that I’d once asked his father to surrender guardianship of him to me? He was just a small Ganymede of a lad, but even then I could tell that, with his brains, wit, and bearing, Lucius Petronius was a born leader. But the old man denied my request, and I was in no position at that time to force his hand.”  
  
Gaius and Publius stared at one another in disbelief.  
  
Publius mouthed. “Did you know?”   
  
Gaius pressed his lips together and shook his head. Thank holy Vesta and all her maiden priestesses that Lucius’s father was a responsible head of his household. The thought of Lucius as a bright-eyed innocent under the lecherous thumb of Marcus sent a shiver down Gaius’s spine.   
  
Gaius cleared his throat and insisted. “Lucius had no interest in the throne, sir. He could barely hold a sword, and then after he was thrown from his horse…”   
  
“A good emperor doesn’t need to fight in hand to hand combat, Gaius. He merely has to pay his soldiers handsomely and on time. It’s only foolish pugilists like us who insist on participating in the bloodshed.”  
  
Marcus turned around and took a long draught from his cup.  
  
“Empress Plotina and I are sponsoring gladiatorial contests in honor of our esteemed Lucius tomorrow. You will both be in attendance at the great amphitheater, as will your wives. Afterwards, we’ll sacrifice two prized bulls to Jupiter and Mars and enjoy a festive family feast here at the palace. Guaranteed fun times for all. Have I made myself clear?”  
  
Gaius and Publius nodded in unison.  
  
“Good.” Marcus leaned down and blew his nose into his slave boy’s sleeve. “It’s past time for my bath. You two scoundrels may leave.”  
  
They bowed before they exited the hall and trotted side by side down the cavernous hallway.  
  
“Did it please you to utter the offense of treason, little brother?”  
  
Publius’s mouth fell open. “I was defending you, Gaius!”  
  
“Tell me, what do you know about the substantial coin missing from the imperial coffers?”  
  
“I only know that Lucius had been charged to investigate the thievery.” Publius scampered to keep up. “Nothing more.”  
  
“The subject never arose during your coquetry with our dear counselor at Pliny’s dinner party?”  
  
“No, it did not. And, despite what you may have heard, I wasn’t flirting with Lucius. Gaius, if you think for one moment that you’re going to accuse me of being involved in his murder, I will…”  
  
Gaius stopped and grabbed a fistful of Publius’s tunic. “You will fucking what?”  
  
“I will—I will not defend you before Father anymore.” He stammered in a surge of choppy syllables.  
  
Gaius snorted and stepped down onto the broad landing. “I don’t need your inept protection, princess.”  
  
“Then—then I will tell him about your affliction.”  
  
Gaius spun around, his eyes narrowed like sharpened dagger blades. “Did you just threaten me?”  
  
“If you dare accuse me of conspiracy in this most egregious crime—a crime of which I am completely innocent—I will inform our esteemed Father that his precious lion cub has the dreaded lunacy.”  
  
Gaius slowly stepped back up onto the floor of the hallway and squeezed Publius’s bearded face between his hands. With a dimpled smile, Gaius purred. “Your allegiance is most valuable to me, little brother. Gods willing, one day one of us will indeed rule our great empire, so be damn careful not to rattle my cage. I don’t forgive empty threats as easily as Marcus does. Now excuse me. I have an appointment to meet Cornelius Tacitus at the archives. Stay out of trouble; I shall see you and your lovely wife in the morn for a glorious day of blood and gore.”  
  
Through his squished mouth, Publius gurgled. “We look forward to spending our day with you and our graceful sister, Marcia Servilia.”  
  
“You’re endearing when you capitulate.” Gaius kissed Publius’s forehead, gently patted his damp cheek, and stormed down the steps. When he was halfway down the first flight of stairs, Publius shouted.  
  
“You’re an unbearable, arrogant fucker, Gaius!”  
  
“Lick my patrician arsehole, Greekling.” With a broad smile, Gaius raised his middle finger and flashed Publius the soldiers’ salute.   
  
~~~~~


	6. Chapter 6

 

                                                                            

  
**_The Tabularium in the old forum, Rome_**  
  
Gaius lowered his shoulder and shoved the jammed door open with such force that it hit the brick wall with a bang. At the far end of the archive reading room, his former mentor didn’t move. Hunched over a long wooden table, Tacitus was either engrossed with his research or he’d become harder of hearing. Probably both. Gaius coughed loudly into his fist before announcing his presence.  
  
“Greetings,  _magister_.”  
  
His grin stern but affectionate, Tacitus turned around and ambled over to embrace him. The historian’s gait was less steady since the last time Gaius had seen him. Close in age to the emperor, Publius Cornelius Tacitus was still a cantankerous crocodile but he’d lost much of his exuberance.   
  
“Gaius Fabius! You’re late, my son. Not that I’m surprised since you never were the sort of pupil who arrived promptly for his lessons.”  
  
“I may not have been your most punctual acolyte, but I was always your favorite.” Gaius retorted as he squeezed the older man’s shoulders.  
  
“Yes, indeed you still are. It’s marvelous to see you back in Rome. My condolences on the loss of your close associate, Lucius Petronius; he was a just and moral man.”  
  
Gaius nodded in gratitude. “He will be missed. I’ve come from the palace, hence the unavoidable delay...” Gaius looked down at his formal attire. “And the rare sight of this soldier clad in a cumbersome toga. Our esteemed emperor sends you his kind regards, sir.”  
  
With a skeptical sigh, Tacitus lowered his voice. “I sincerely doubt that; I haven’t been invited to the palace for years. Did our great king admonish you for that parade stunt of yours this morning?”  
  
“For the love of Hercules, is every soul in this city aware of my impulsive little procession?”  
  
Tacitus sat down in the nearest chair, clasped his hands in front of his mouth, and mumbled. “That was the point, was it not?”  
  
“Subtlety has never been my strong suit. Fortunately, the emperor seems to have excused my rash conduct. You, however, should refrain from referring to our esteemed emperor as  _king_. That could be lethal,  _magister_.”  
  
Tacitus laughed; he’d lost two more teeth since before the war. “Marcus tolerates my occasional outbursts of insolence as long as I stick to publishing my useless chronicles and avoid public life. Since he hasn’t put a sword through me yet, I’m confident that I shall live out my days growing more gray and feeble with each passing season.”  
  
Gaius strolled over to his former adviser and rubbed his head. “You were gray. You’re now bald, my dear Tacitus.”  
  
Tacitus enjoyed a deep belly laugh and extended his arm; Gaius helped him rise from his chair.  
  
“Congratulations on another successful campaign, Commander Fabius. The Lucky Fourth has brought glory to our empire once again. I look forward to the triumphal games. But Gaius, why of all places did you wish to meet me here in the bowels of the state archives? We could be at my home, relaxing under the arbors by the fountain.”  
  
“Perhaps next time, sir.” Gaius squeezed the small piece of papyrus in his clenched right hand. “I’m here to review the registers of identified Dacian noble houses, especially the lists of the princelings killed or captured during the wars. I have a name that intrigues me, and few men know how to navigate these archives as well as you, Tacitus.”   
  
“The Dacian Wars registers? Those ledgers would be on the third floor, in the room at the far end of the hallway on the right. We’ll use the stairs over there.”  
  
Tacitus pointed to a steep and narrow vaulted staircase that connected all five stories of the enormous depository building. Despite its colossal size, the Tabularium was packed to the rafters with senatorial proceedings, legal documents, and war records dating back to the early days of Republic. Thank the gods that the emperor had enough foresight to start construction on a new administrative center with additional storage spaces. Rome was bloody drowning in canisters of papyrus scrolls.  
  
Gaius grabbed hold of the senator’s slim arm and held fast. While he’d been campaigning in Dacia, he’d received word from Rome that Tacitus had suffered a bad fall and was bedridden for weeks. The old bloke was damn lucky he didn’t split his fucking skull open.  
  
They took the stairs slowly. It was an arduous climb, but together—step by cautious step—they made their way up to the third floor and down to the storage room.  
  
“Over here, Gaius. The registers for the recent wars are arranged in two sections. The shelves up there hold the lists for the first war against the Dacian menace, while those contain the tallies for the second. Where do you wish to start?”  
  
“The second war, first scroll.”  
  
“You know what you want. That’ll make our quest much more expedient.” Tacitus waved a finger towards the top shelf; the skittish archive slave scrambled up the ladder, took hold of the hefty bundle and carried it down before spreading the rolls out on the reading table.  
  
Gaius sighed as he rifled through the batch looking for the tag that indicated the first scroll of the alphabetized lists. “Here it is.”  
  
After he’d pulled a lamp closer, Gaius laid the crumpled piece of paper that he brought from the villa on the table and smoothed the wrinkled papyrus. “The name that interests me is this one:  _Allethodokoles_.”  
  
Tacitus chuckled and tapped the hastily written word. “That atrocious combination of letters is not a noble Dacian name, Gaius. That nonsense must be the false moniker of some insignificant pretender or a haughty peasant with starry-eyed ambitions.”  
  
“I suspect you’re right. But let’s have a look in any case, shall we?”  
  
Gaius unfurled the scroll and scanned the entries in the neat list. No record of an Allethodokoles, as he’d expected. The fabricated name was fucking ridiculous. He traced a fingertip over the record of Dacian names. No mention of Allerix or his capture. He breathed a sigh of relief and asked, “Where’s the last scroll for the second war?”  
  
After he’d rifled through the pile, Tacitus pushed the roll across the desk. “Here it is. What are you looking for now, son?”  
  
“It’s just a hunch. Tell the slave to fetch the records for the first war while I’ll review this list.”  
  
While Tacitus was delivering meticulous instructions to the archive worker, Gaius quickly unrolled the scroll and found what he was hoping to find—that name that had riled his raven-haired Dacian in the villa playroom.  
  


  
**_TARBUS_ **   
**_First son of Thiamarkos.  
Killed during the siege of Sarmizegetusa. Inked._ **   


  
  
Ah! So this Tarbus wasn’t Allerix’s mysterious lover, after all. He was Alle’s older brother—a very dead older brother. And yet, the mere mention of Tarbus’s name had caused his cub’s hackles to rise. That knowledge could come in handy down the road.  
  
But if Tarbus perished during Rome’s siege of the great Dacian capital, why the fuck hadn’t he heard of this fellow? Tarbus was the son of a royal house, albeit a minor kingdom, and the attack had been carried out under Gaius’s direct command. With his own damn sword, he’d cut down scores of Dacian fighters during those bloody days. What if he’d killed Alle’s older brother? Would Allerix curse him or thank him?   
  
Gaius scanned the names written below Tarbus but found no record for Thiamarkos. Alle’s insignificant father had either perished during the first war or was alive and hiding with the other refugees in the Carpathian Mountains. If the latter were true it might explain Allerix’s thirst for escape. As the details fell into place, Gaius licked his lips with satisfaction.  
  
“Well, that was for naught.” He complained as he quickly rolled up the record and shoved it under the bottom of the pile.  
  
“Here is the first scroll from the first war.” After Tacitus had handed it to him, Gaius pretended to review the names. No record of an Allethodokoles, of course.  
  
“And again, nothing.” Gaius dropped his head to exaggerate his feigned frustration.   
  
“There’s one more, Gaius. An addendum to the registers for the second war that our assistant has discovered shoved back behind the canisters. It’s slim but here it is.”  
  
Just as Tacitus had warned, the supplement was thin and incomplete, but there he was.   
  
Shit.  
  


  
**_ALLERIX_ **   
**_Second son of Thiamarkos.  
Captured pr. Kal. Iunius. No markings._ **   


  
  
Gaius pressed his lips together. He’d been dining with Lucius on the evening that he received word from his agent of Alle’s capture. He burned that communication immediately after he’d read it, sharing its contents with no one, not even Lucius. But now here was this brief but official record of Allerix’s existence—worse, his survival. This addendum needed to disappear as well. Should his ruse ever be discovered, Alle would be condemned to the beasts and Gaius Fabius Rufus, Lion of the Lucky Fourth, charged with treason.  
  
Executed, the both of them.   
  
Scratching his scalp vigorously with his left hand in order to distract his companions, Gaius wrapped the slender supplementary list around his right pointer finger before he shoved his hand under the heavy folds of his toga. “There’s nothing of interest in that addendum either. I fear I’ve wasted your valuable time, Tacitus.”  
  
“Nonsense. As long as you agree to escort me home and enjoy a jug of wine with your old teacher, I’d say this venture was most successful.”  
  
“A brilliant proposal.” Gaius replied while he assembled the messy pile of scrolls into a neater stack for the slave to return to the shelves. “This brutally long day has left me parched. I expect your best wine, Tacitus.”  
  
“Of course.” Tacitus patted him on the back. “Only the best for my triumphant student.”  
  
They walked out, arm in arm, when the archive slave spoke up.   
  
“Sirs, I can’t seem to locate the addendum.”  
  
Gaius turned and warned with a wag of his finger. “If the chief magistrate of the archives discovers that any of those records have gone missing, it’ll be your head that gets lopped off. I’ve heard he’s a right vicious bastard who doesn’t tolerate sloppy housekeeping.”  
  
The slave shut his mouth and nodded as he scooped up the unwieldy pile of scrolls. Gaius smiled; for slaves and freemen alike, self-preservation was paramount.  
  
As they exited the arched entrance to the archive building and stepped out into the bright light of the old forum, Gaius touched the edge of the stolen papyrus. Before they’d left the storage room, he slid it into his scabbard alongside the blade of his dagger. With the record now in his possession, Allerix, son of Thiamarkos, was all but erased from history.  
  
Fuck the sacrosanctity of the archives; fuck the law.   
  
He failed Lucius, but—gods be damned—Allerix would not be shredded to bloody bits for the spectators’ amusement in the sandy arena of the amphitheater.  
  
He would keep his Dacian princeling safe.  
  
Unharmed and alive.  
  
Gaius wrapped his arm around Tacitus’s bony shoulders and exhaled before he mused. “Have you ever wondered what would happen if the state archives were ever burned to ashes,  _magister_? I suppose it’s a bloody miracle that the records weren’t destroyed during the great conflagration of Nero’s tyranny.”  
  
“Fortunately that catastrophic inferno was extinguished before it could damage the archive building. For nine long days, the entire populace watched in horror as the flames engulfed much the city. I was still living with my family in southern Gaul during that hot summer, but the reports my father received from the capital were terrifying.”  
  
They passed a row of shops; the smell of fresh baked loaves and sweet pastries filled the air. If marble and gold were emblems of imperial power, these delightful fragrances were the citizens’ quotidian rewards for Rome’s conquests. Victory brought not only peace and riches, but also some fucking delicious bread.   
  


                                                                                

  
Tacitus stopped at the last stall and purchased a honey cake, which he devoured in three bites while Gaius continued. “Nero’s fire will not soon be forgotten,  _magister_. But imagine, for just a moment, how simple it would be for our ancestors, our enemies—for us—to simply disappear from history in some frightful blaze. Poof!”  
  
“You jest, Gaius, but pray to the almighty gods that never happens. We rely on the registers to preserve our accomplishments and safeguard the past. Recollection alone is far too fragile and capricious.”  
  
“Memory of our deeds will endure only as long as the papyrus scrolls survive the ravages of time. Perhaps that is why the old farts in the priesthoods exhort us to commission portraits made of bronze and stone.”   
  
Tacitus nodded, his face serious, when Gaius added with a smirk. “Future generations may forget our names and our accomplishments, but apparently they’ll remember us by our unsightly heads.” He playfully patted Tacitus’s crooked back.  
  
The bald senator chuckled as he wiped the yellow crumbs from his lips. “You are an incorrigible skeptic, my dear Gaius. I suppose, if the priests are correct, we ought to put on a damn good face for the sculptors; posterity is a famously cruel judge.”  
  
“Don’t worry about being judged by that mammoth proboscis of yours, my old friend. Everyone knows the noses break off the portrait statues first.”  
  
~~~~~


	7. Chapter 7

**_The Flavian Amphitheater, Rome_ **  
  
  


  
  
As they strolled past the guards standing at attention along both sides of the wide, vaulted passageway, a thunderous roar shook the travertine blocks of the great amphitheater. Ahead, a bright veil of fine dust clouded the arched opening that led to the unroofed auditorium. All of Rome was here, each man assigned to a section and row according to his wealth and status. Their booming cheers signaled another pointless death, another meaningless victory.   
  
Unfortunately, there was little time left to enjoy the cooler air and invisibility of the tunnel. A few more feet and he and his wife would ascend the short staircase and step out onto the elevated platform to wave to the throng before taking their seats in the imperial box. Gaius gripped Marcia’s hand and pulled her to a stop.   
  
“Are you feeling better?” He asked.   
  
Marcia wouldn’t look at him; she merely flashed a pained smile and nodded. Crowds made her twitchy, and she hated gladiatorial contests more than she disliked chariot races. But it was time for his dutiful wife to push aside her distaste and perform—another unavoidable consequence of marriage to Rome’s second in command.   
  
“It was that poached ostrich egg that upset your stomach. Damn things are too rich to eat for a first meal.” He cupped her face with his hands. “Listen, we won’t be here long. At this late hour, only one or two combats remain. There will be ample opportunity for you to lie down and recover in time for tonight’s festivities.” He reassured.  
  
“Are you upset that we’re late?”  
  
“Why would I be angry? Marcia, the less time that I’m forced to spend with my family, the better. But I am very grateful to you for insisting that you accompany me.”   
  
Marcia smiled as she nudged him forward. “Of course I’m here. Marcus’s games are in honor of our dear Lucius. It would be improper to miss them, no matter how nauseous I feel.”  
  
Gaius glanced to his left. Guard after guard lined the access corridor, their faces obscured by the shadows of their broad-brimmed steel helmets. Anonymous, obedient machines.   
  
“Lucius would have fucking hated this. Now if this were a theatrical festival with choruses of cherubic boys singing his praises in Sapphic meter? By the gods, he would have cherished such a celebration, but not this.”  
  
“I know. But it's tradition. And I also know that the emperor will be most cross at our tardiness.”   
  
“Marcus will be irritated, and he’ll grumble a bit, but nothing worse. Plotina, of course, will be apoplectic.” He grinned and squeezed Marcia’s hand again. “I’ll handle it, wife. Try to relax and, if need be, avert your eyes from the arena.”  
  
They glanced at one another before climbing the treads and stepping into the bright, hazy sunshine onto a marble platform bordered by a bronze parapet.   
  
“We’ve arrived between shows.” Gaius tipped his chin towards the elliptical stage below.  Weaving through pieces of shattered metal and wood, two attendants crouched as they hauled off an enormous battered fighter. The Thracian victor, holding his small rectangular shield high above his head in triumph, headed for the tunnel that led from Rome’s amphitheater to the gladiators’ nearby quarters. Gaius waited for the dwindling cheers of the audience to subside before he raised his hand, which resulted in an impressive outburst of applause led by the veterans in attendance.   
  
“They adore you,” Marcia noted with little enthusiasm.  
  
“Don’t let the mob’s insipid flattery fool you. Until Marcus makes a decision about the succession, I’m nothing more than another expendable soldier. Come, let’s take our seats.”  
  
All members of the court that mattered were present, decked head to toe in their finest garb. Marcus and Plotina sat perched on their gilded chairs, front and center, surrounded by family, senior allies in the Senate, a high priest or two, and the chief court advisors. Publius was there, as were Pliny, the consuls Micinius and Senecio, and Marcus’s dear prick of an associate, Acilius Attianus. Clad in a rainbow of bright fabrics, they prattled to one another like regal peacocks but not a single one of them was a patrician.  
  
And then he saw her.  
  
She was seated on the other side of her husband.   
  
Shit, he hadn’t seen her in nearly two years; they’d barely spoken ten words since her marriage to his ward brother. Sabina wore a pale blue gown trimmed in gold and copper threads, her wavy blonde hair braided and tied back into an elaborate bun.  She folded her hands and turned to say something to her pinched-faced mother, Matidia. Both women tried their best to pretend he hadn’t arrived.  
  
She laughed. Despite her mask of feminine propriety, anger flashed every time she moved her lips, a deep resentment born that day Plotina ended Sabina’s brief and unofficial betrothal to Gaius.   
  
Vibia Sabina, daughter of a dead former consul, had every right to despise all of them, including the emperor, her great uncle. They all betrayed her, or so she would complain during those days after Plotina’s grand announcement in the audience hall. But even clueless princess Publius would admit that the once scrawny, awkward girl had blossomed into a stunning beauty: high cheekbones, a rosebud mouth, lithesome curves, and those bright, clever eyes. What a bloody sham of a marriage the poor thing had been forced to accept. She deserved better than the Greekling, and certainly better than Gaius Fabius Rufus.   
  
Fucking meddlesome Plotina, forever spinning her web of schemes and fantasies.   
  
“You’re late, Commander Fabius.” Marcus barked as they walked by, crinkling his aquiline nose in displeasure. Powerful gusts of warm wind blew overhead. The giant canvas awning —a naval engineer’s ingenious invention to provide shade for the sweltering spectators—flapped up and down like the wings of some colossal vulture fighting to stay aloft.   
  
Gaius paused and bowed. “Greetings, Caesar. We were delayed by unforeseen circumstances. Please, accept my apologies and…”  
  
“I’m afraid it was my fault,” Marcia interrupted, her voice cracking mid-sentence. “I fell ill this morning, my most esteemed Emperor.”  
  
Marcus rose from his seat and extended his hand. With genuine concern in his eyes, he asked, “My dearest child, is your health better now?”  
  
“I'm much improved, sir. Thank you for your concern.”  
  
With a wave of her hand, Plotina sighed in annoyance as Marcus sat back down. “First our fair Sabina and now you, Marcia? I once hoped that the wives of this court would have constitutions as robust as their ambitions. Alas, you’re both as fragile as glass vessels. Empty, brittle containers.”   
  
“I appreciate your heartfelt sympathies, my beloved Empress.” Marcia replied with a sardonic smile.   
  
Gaius covered his mouth to shield his grin and turned away. Down in the arena, the next four combatants circled the sandy floor, adjusting their armor and testing their weapons. As he and Marcia settled into their seats, the gladiators separated into pairs. On the left, a heavy-set Thracian brute swung his short curved sword with skill. His opponent, a paunchy middle-aged man, armed with the equipment of a Murmillo, sliced his long gladius through the air only to hit himself in the shin guard before tripping over his long shield.   
  
“This should be fucking quick,” Gaius grumbled.  
  
“Care to make a wager, dear brother?” Publius inquired as he wiped is perspiring brow.  
  
“No.”  
  
Publius groused. “You’ve become a right bore, Gaius. Who in Rome doesn’t love a good gladiatorial fight?”   
  
“War depletes most soldiers’ interest in choreographed slaughter—at least for those who’ve experienced the barbarity of battle first hand. But you wouldn't know about that, would you?”  
  
Publius turned his back in a huff.  
  
“Brother?” Gaius paused until Publius turned to face him.  “I’ve received several alarming reports concerning the conduct of your associates. Just yesterday, a group of your clients shouted disgraceful insults at my veterans who were simply strolling through Pompey’s portico. Control your wayward ducklings, or I will.”  
  
Publius chuckled; his breath smelled like something reminiscent of peppery cheese crusted to the sole of a beggar’s foot. “Disgraceful insults? I'll have you know that one of my loyal and most competent secretaries was stabbed to death three days past in one of the safer neighborhoods on the Aventine, Commander.”  
  
“By whom?”  
  
“We don’t know. Despite the new security patrols, this bloody city is as dangerous as ever. First Lucius Petronius and now my dear Myron. I’m wary of leaving the palace some nights.” Publius scrubbed his curly flaxen beard before grabbing Gaius by the wrist. “Listen to me—I don’t know who killed Lucius, or why. I assume that his murder was related to his theft investigation, but the emperor deliberately barred me from all of those deliberations.” Publius dropped his voice. “He wouldn’t even divulge the specifics of the case to our beloved empress. Marcus doesn’t trust anyone.”  
  
Gaius grit his teeth. “Let go of my fucking hand, Greekling.”  
  
“Gaius, you must believe me.”  
  
“Lads, lads! There will be no bickering between you two today. This a celebration.”  
  
In unison, Gaius and Publius turned towards their former guardian, the unequivocal ruler of the civilized world. Marcus tossed back a hefty gulp of wine before he smiled and raised his cup. “Let us enjoy the remainder of the games!”  
  
A palace slave rushed over with a platter of full cups; they each selected a silver goblet for the salute. “To your generous games, Caesar!”  
  
Down below, their every move scrutinized by over fifty thousand pairs of eyes, the second pair of fighters tested each other’s mettle. A lean-muscled Retiarius attempted to toss his unwieldy net over his foe, an ox of a Secutor. The armed bull stepped to the side and waited for the uncoordinated idiot to untangle his net from the prongs of his trident. Gaius leaned over and sneered softly into Marcia’s ear. “No expense was spared for this farce.”   
  
Marcia shrugged and exhaled a hushed chuckle. “Perhaps the organizers ran out of professional gladiators? I’m certain I’ve seen that portly one with the long sword in the Forum selling fabrics in the markets near the Temple of the Divine Augustus. Gaius, why is that fellow on the right with the net not wearing armor?”  
  
“The Retiarius isn’t permitted armor. According to the rules, he can use only the weapons of Poseidon and his wits if he has any.”  
  
“But the other man is so much larger and more heavily equipped. It seems an unfair match.”  
  
“Perceptions can be misleading, Marcia. If the Retiarius is quick on his feet, he can force that armored mule to chase him. It’s hot as Hades down there, and that gear is heavy. Should the Secutor become tired and winded, the Retiarius will simply ensnare him and finish him off with one clean thrust of his trident. That’s if he has the skill, mind you.”  
  
“So there’s a strategy to this madness?”  
  
“Some might call it that. Our dear Publius finds these contests most riveting.   
  
“What’s your opinion?”  
  
“They are nothing more than orchestrated and costly pantomimes designed to entertain the riotous proletariat and placate our pitiless gods.” Gaius sighed and closed his eyes. The day wasn’t half over. He still had to stomach this evening's dinner with his loving family.   
  
“Caesar, a message from the Praetorian Prefect.” The imperial freedman announced with a quick bow before handing Marcus a sealed scroll. Gaius glanced over his shoulder. Where was Prefect Livianus? The serpent wouldn’t miss an opportunity to sidle up to the emperor in front of such a large and adoring crowd.   
  
“Who are you looking for?” Marcia asked.  
  
“Livianus. He should be here.”  
  
“I doubt he’s far. You did notice Aurelia, didn’t you?”  
  
“Where?”  
  
“To your left, three rows up. She’s sitting beside Marciana.”  
  
There she was, bouncing in her seat, babbling incessantly as her hands gestured with each witless comment. Her trapped companion, the emperor’s elder sister, Marciana, nodded in response every so often, a practiced smile plastered to her face like a well-worn comedic mask. Unlike Luc’s despicable widow, she was a virtuous matron: kind, generous, and perceptive. At fifty-nine years, Marciana radiated a glow that far outshone her younger sister-in-law, the empress.  
  
Gaius faced forward and crossed his arms. “Aurelia has some bloody nerve showing her weasel snout in my presence.”  
  
“Lucius was her husband. As his widow, she’s expected to attend games in his honor. Be patient, Gaius.” Patting the back of his hand, she sighed when the official raised his hand to signal the start of the contests.  
  
Contest was a generous description; slaughter would have been more appropriate.  
  
The Thracian killed the rotund Murmillo with three precise stabs of his short blade. No mercy, no appeal to spare his life; the fabric merchant-turned-gladiator no doubt had cheated a good amount of coin from his customers over the years. The mob delighted in the criminal’s gruesome but quick death. In contrast, the helmetless Retiarius faired better, for a while. The amateur net-thrower lasted two full rounds of sparring before kneeling to beg for clemency, which Marcus duly denied to the applause of the spectators. Presumably under orders to prolong the mob’s gratification, the Secutor made slow and grisly work of Retiarus’s execution.  
  
“Fucking predictable.” Gaius griped before covering his mouth to stifle a yawn.  
  
Marcus leaned over. “If you’d arrived on time, you would have enjoyed the earlier combats, Commander. I enlisted the best professional fighters in all of Rome to honor Counselor Petronius. This morning’s gladiators were highly trained and well matched. By the gods, their sword skills were truly heroic. I spared all of them, every single one.” The emperor beamed as he sat back and slapped the arms of his chair with his palms.  
  
Unblinking and stone-faced, Gaius stated flatly, “I’ve no doubt that Lucius’s spirit was most impressed, Caesar.”  
  
“Hmm? I do hope you are right, Gaius. Lucius Petronius Celsus deserves the grandest of spectacles.” Marcus looked around for a specific servant and summoned him over. “I’ve arranged a special finale, a treat to celebrate the great achievements of our dear departed counselor of the courts.”  
  
Plotina furrowed her brow and asked, “Have you planned a surprise without my knowledge or my input, my esteemed Emperor?”  
  
“It seems I have. Imagine that?” Marcus clapped his hands and yelled at the slave. “Inform Prefect Livianus that it is time to sacrifice the heathen!”  
  
“Yes, Caesar.”  
  
A sharp pain stung Gaius’s throat as if he swallowed a broken peach pit. These days, heathen was synonymous with Dacian.  
  
Moments later, after the slaves had served more wine and scrumptious finger foods to everyone seated in the imperial box, Livianus emerged through one of the tunnels below. He waved to the crowd as he dragged a terrified scraggly youth into the center of the arena. Behind him marched ten soldiers of the Praetorian Guard. Working in prearranged teams, each pair of soldiers struggled to hold onto the chains linked to the iron collars of five vicious but well-trained dogs of war. The frothing massive beasts snarled and pulled and pawed the sand, hungry to feast on human flesh.   
  
Marcus stood and extended his arm. “People of Rome! I offer a barbarian sacrifice to Jove for the continued good fortune of our great Empire and to honor the blessed spirit of our noble counselor, Lucius Petronius Celsus!”   
  
A deafening roar of approval rose from the auditorium seats.  
  
“Gaius, that barbarian is only a boy.” Marcia objected in a quiet voice.  
  
She was right. Naked except for a filthy frayed loincloth, the lad was too thin and too young to be a warrior. He likely hadn’t even grown his first beard yet. He never would. The peasant boy wailed and struggled until he collapsed. Two arena attendants hastily strapped the wretch to a wooden stake.    
  
“Prefect Livianus, tell us the name of this Dacian cur whom we offer to the ferocious canines of Mars!”  
  
Livianus pulled out a piece of papyrus and read the letters silently to himself before hollering, “Alle-tho-do-ko-les, Caesar!”  
  
At first confusion buzzed through the audience. The curious murmurs soon changed to hoots of laughter. It was a ridiculous fucking name.  
  
Gaius choked on a swallow of wine and wiped his mouth. By Hercules’ drunken balls, the absurd name wasn’t a fabricated alias, after all. Did Allerix actually know this poor lad, Allethodokoles? Had they been friends?   
  
Gaius cleared his throat and remarked, contempt dripping with every word. “Caesar, permit me to remind your greatness that your laws permit public execution without trial for enemy royalty only—royalty, as in barbarian kings and princelings and such. Surely you can see that this creature is a low-born farmer’s bastard.”  
  
“Your legal clarification is dangerously close to insolence, Gaius. I’m perfectly aware of what my fucking laws require. The state prison holds several captured Dacian swine of the royal variety. However, I’ve decided to save those animals for execution during our triumphal games. This unfortunate louse, be he princeling or peasant, must suffice for today’s celebrations.”  
  
“Then let us pray that almighty Jupiter is not offended by our miserly gift.”   
  
Marcus’s grin tightened into a scowl. “Since you have taken such keen interest in this sacrifice, I award you the honor of signaling the release of the dogs, Commander.”  
  
“You are most indulgent, Caesar.” Gaius spat back as he raised his right arm. He lowered it quickly; the guards moved the dogs forward, a few feet at a time. Wide-eyed, his skin pale and sweaty, the doomed Dacian lad screamed and thrashed and begged until he fainted.   
  
Gaius raised his arm again and lowered it. The guards dropped the chain leashes. Two dogs charged and ripped apart the boy’s abdomen. Another tore off his left leg, but soon lost his bloody prize to an even larger dog. The most nimble of the beasts jumped up, grabbed the Dacian peasant by the throat, and chewed through his sinews and bone. The lad’s mangled head fell to the ground, his twisted expression of terror frozen on his young face forever.  
  
Clutching her stomach, Marcia scrambled to her feet and dashed off towards the exit. Gaius didn’t move. He couldn’t move. The pungent stench of bile and urine, the ravenous growls of the dogs fighting for scraps—the horror of every gory detail mesmerized him.   
  
Paralyzed him.  
  
After a few more moments, the handlers hollered the command to return; the war dogs obediently trotted back, tongues hanging and tails wagging, their manes and muzzles soaked crimson.   
  
Gaius blinked twice, slowly. The screams and cheers of the bloodthirsty mob transformed into the cries of battle on some distant Carpathian hillside. He recalled those howls for mercy and desperate prayers to deaf gods. Roman swords pierced frenzied, half-clad Dacian fighters as lethal falx blades sliced off the heads and limbs of many of his soldiers. The green mountain grass turned muddy brown-red from the streams of blood, Dacian mixed with Roman, flowing down the gentle slopes.  
  
A sharp blow to the back of his skull snapped him out of his ghastly flashback.  
  
“Get up and tend to Marcia, you idiot! Can’t you see she’s unwell?”  
  
He turned just in time to see her beautiful eyes narrow. Fierce and blue. Heavy-lidded but guarded. Except for their color, hers resembled Allerix’s hypnotic eyes.  
  
Allerix.   
  
Was he safe? Could he protect him from execution? And if so, for how fucking long?  
  
After glancing down at the arena one final time, Gaius turned back and opened his mouth to say something but there were no words. Sabina lowered her voice and pointed to the corridor. “Go help your wife, Gaius.”  
  
In a daze, he rose to his feet, all the while never breaking eye contact with her. In a hushed voice, Gaius said, “We'll see you and your husband at dinner this evening. Farewell and good health.”  
  
Sabina scoffed and wagged her finger. “If Marcia is not feeling better, do not bring her to the palace. The poor thing is already humiliated beyond belief.”  
  
Gaius hurried to the tunnel, where he found his wife leaning against the travertine wall, spit dribbling down her chin. A gaggle of palace slave girls held her up by her arms and wiped her mouth with a damp cloth. He rushed over and pulled her into an embrace. “Sshh, it’s over. Let’s get you home.”  
  
Marcia sobbed once and pressed her face against his shoulder. “Gaius, forgive me. I don't know what ails me. Oh, most holy, Juno—I shouldn’t have consumed that wine!” She pushed back and heaved, regurgitating all over the front of his formal tunic.   
  
_Clap._  
  
_Clap._  
  
After ordering the guards to escort Marcia outside, Gaius spotted the silhouette standing in the shadows just inside the tunnel entrance.   
  
_Clap, clap, clap._  
  
He squinted and yelled. “How dare you insult my wife! Who are you? Show your face.”   
  
Before he could move, Sabina stepped into the bright light cast by a torch affixed the corridor wall. “Gaius, I would never mock your bride. I’ve grown quite fond of Marcia, and that execution was most revolting. If I were ill, by the gods, I would have vomited as well. I'm merely applauding her excellent aim.”  
  
As her rosebud lips stretched into a spiteful smirk, Sabina raised her right hand and flashed Gaius’s favorite soldiers’ salute. “Are you surprised that I remember the crude gestures you taught me?”  
  
“Not at all.” Amused, Gaius cocked an eyebrow and lowered his chin. “You were always an eager pupil.”  
  
“And  _you_  are still a shameless, self-important prick. Thank the gods I never married you.” She lifted the hem of her long dress, turned around, and strode back into the auditorium, hollering over her shoulder. “Bring a hearty appetite tonight, Commander Fabius! Rumor is the palace chefs are roasting a rhinoceros.”

 

~~~~~


	8. Chapter 8

_**The imperial residence on the Palatine Hill, Rome** _   
  


 

“Rhinoceros, Commander Fabius?” The pretty palace slave asked as he held out the tray and batted his dark blond lashes.  
  
Gaius shielded his nose with the back of his hand. “Get that vile beast flesh away from my face.”  
  
“It’s surprisingly delicious, Gaius,” Marcia noted, before selecting another dark red, bite-sized piece of meat from the pile carefully arranged high on a silver platter. “It tastes like ox, but sweeter.”  
  
Studying his wife’s fetching profile, Gaius pursed his mouth in disgust as she chewed the tough morsel. He waved his hand in front of his face and grumbled. “That might taste sweet but it smells like ox shit. I am, however, pleased to see that your appetite has returned with a vengeance.”  
  
Marcia wolfed down the gamey meat and snatched another warm slice of roasted rhino before the slave departed to serve Matidia, Marciana, and Pliny, who were lying on next couch.   
  
“Thanks to healing Hygeia!” Marcia exclaimed and popped the bite into her mouth. As she munched, Marcia mumbled. “Thanks to all the gods that I recovered so quickly from that debacle at the amphitheater.”  
  
Propped up on his left elbow, Gaius pushed a strand of brunette hair away from her hazel eyes with his right hand. “A long soak in a warm, fragrant bath followed by a dreamless nap cures most afflictions.”  
  
“We’re all relieved that you’re feeling better, Marcia,” Memmia interjected as she peeked over Gaius’s right shoulder. “In the future, you must avoid the heat of the arena, dear girl. It traps the insalubrious African breezes that invade our city this time of year. The baleful winds of cursed Carthage. Don’t you agree, Rufus?”   
  
Gaius rolled his eyes, knowing that his grandmother couldn’t see his face. “Yes, Avia.”  
  
She punched him in the shoulder. “Then why, by Castor, did you force your indisposed wife to attend the spectacles, you brute?”  
  
“I did not force anyone to do anything. My wife insisted on attending. And Emperor Trajan made it quite clear that our presence was mandatory. It was a direct order. You told me to grovel at his feet, remember?”  
  
“Bah! Marcus and his foolhardy directives.” Memmia pushed herself up; her aged joints cracked with every move. She smacked her lips and asked, “Where are those damn grilled oysters? Now those were tasty. I want more.”  
  
Gaius leaned back and joked. “Maximus, be a dear and fetch Avia some oysters before she withers away and starves to death.”  
  
With his hands crossed behind his back, Max fought off a chuckle. “Yes, Commander.”  
  
Before Max could trek across the dining hall, horns trumpeted the arrival of the imperial couple. Accompanied by six armed guards, Marcus entered first, wearing a long burgundy mantle over his cream-colored tunic. Plotina wore layers of blue and green fabric, her pile of curls pierced by gold hairpins, her neck and wrists dripping with gem and pearl-encrusted jewelry.   
  
“Ah, the imperial couple has finally made their grand entrance. Look at how our modest Plotina demonstrates her efforts to curb ostentatious displays of wealth.” Gaius murmured sarcastically to Marcia. She swatted his forearm but resisted the urge to laugh.  
  
Resting her palm on her husband’s outstretched hand, the Empress strolled through the room and surveyed each of the six couches like a hawk, noting who was present and where they sat. Gods help anyone who ignored her prearranged seating placards.   
  
“Greetings, beloved family and dearest friends!” Marcus hollered as he guided his wife to their spots on the elevated dining couch of honor. “How’s the fare?”  
  
Pliny cheered. “Splendid and generous, as always, my esteemed and most victorious Emperor!”   
  
“Fucking sycophant,” Gaius muttered to himself. He glanced over at Apollodorus, who reclined alongside his beautiful wife, Helen, two couches away. Appy shook his head and flashed an exasperated smirk. Even the Greek engineer found Pliny’s blatant flattering tiresome.  
  
Marcus chuckled. “I am pleased that you are satisfied, Gaius Plinius. And you, our dearest Memmia Cornelia—you’ve traveled all the way from the suburbs to join us this evening. We are most honored. Are you enjoying the party?”  
  
“I’d enjoy it more if that scamp over there would bring me those delightful oysters.” Memmia playfully grabbed her bony neck and coughed. “And my parched throat would appreciate a refill of wine.”  
  
Laughter filled the room, drowning out the sounds of the water splashing from the decorative fountains that were set into niches on the walls. Memmia Cornelia loved the attention; she always appreciated an adoring audience. With a smile, Marcus ordered the servant to rush to her couch with a heaping platter of shellfish and a full jug of drink.  
  
While the guests nibbled the exotic array of meats, cheeses, and breads, entertainers performed for the guests’ amusement. Blowing mellifluous tunes through their panpipes, a troupe of dancing maidens skipped between the columns that circled the dining couches. Over in one corner, two massive dark-skinned Egyptians each held up a long metal pole; a duo of naked boys twirled around the rods in acrobatic wonder. In another corner, a costumed slave recited an epic Greek poem, but no one seemed to pay him much notice. Outside the servants’ entrance, a slave dropped a tray of figs and received three harsh blows to his head from the chief steward. Marcus’s personal attendant, Phaedimos, was nowhere in sight. Whores, even the most pampered palace bed warmers, were rarely allowed to attend posh dinners, and certainly not when the empress was present.  
  
Although she sat on the opposite side of the intimate dining circle, Gaius could feel her judgmental eyes bore through his skin. Pompeia Plotina, the grand matron of Rome, the most powerful woman in the world. The indomitable queen of all bitches.  
  
After placing his silver cup on the low marble table in front of their couch, Gaius scratched his nose. How old had Plotina been when his mother, Julia, abandoned him at Marcus’s estate all those years ago? He was fourteen years old, still wearing his puerile toga. Plotina must have been fifteen. Perhaps sixteen? Marcus’s new young bride despised him from the first moment they met. She still did, but her youthful beauty had long since disappeared. These days her garish cosmetics cracked at the corners of her mouth whenever she moved her lips. Plotina looked at least a decade older than her thirty-seven years. Meddling in Rome’s political affairs had taken its toll.  
  
Plotina rose from her couch, rearranged the folds of her intricately embroidered azure gown, and sauntered over. “How wonderful that you are feeling well, Marcia Servilia. We are so pleased to see you here.”  
  
“Thank you, Empress. I am—”   
  
Before Marcia could finish her thought, Plotina turned to speak with Gaius. “Commander Fabius, trade seats with me. Our esteemed Emperor wishes to speak with you.” It was an order, not a request. Plotina never asked for anything. She took.  
  
“Of course, Domina.”  
  
Poking his yellowed teeth with an ivory toothpick, Marcus patted the couch cushion. “Sit down, Gaius. Did you try the rhinoceros? It’s most memorable though the stench is rather repugnant.” The emperor licked his gums with his tongue as he flicked the toothpick; a sliver of partially chewed meat landed on the colorful marble floor. “Listen, I’ve received word that Titus Petronius has finally arrived in Rome. Now that he’s here, Lucius Petronius’s testament can be unsealed and read on the next auspicious day. According to both the calendar and my astrologers, that will be in two days time.”  
  
“That is welcome news, Caesar.”   
  
 _Farewell and good fucking riddance, Aurelia!_  
  
“And after the counselor’s will is read before the inheritance magistrates in the Julian basilica, you will depart this city. Have your bags packed, and your horses saddled.”  
  
“Depart? But—but what about the murder investigation, sir?”  
  
“From this point forward, I will supervise the investigation. Go to your estate in Campania—go anywhere, as long as you stay far outside the boundaries of the capital. Be my guest and enjoy a relaxing holiday at the imperial villa on Capri, if you like. The flowers should be in full bloom.”  
  
“Why must I leave?”  
  
“Your mere presence in the capital encourages your veterans to take action. Their steadfast loyalty to you is commendable on the battlefield but not here in Rome. Today, while we were all enjoying the games at the amphitheater, a gang of your followers attacked two of your brother’s clients. Witnesses claim that both sides exchanged many slanderous insults. Fortunately, it was a brief skirmish, easily quelled, but worrisome nevertheless. A citizen died, Commander.”   
  
Gaius glanced over at Publius and swallowed. “My men killed one of the Greekling’s associates?”  
  
“No, thank Jove! The poor chap was an innocent nobody. The fight took place in front of that tavern your veterans frequent down by the riverfront warehouses. Appalling behavior. Have your men no discipline? I will not tolerate civil disobedience, Gaius.”  
  
Gaius exhaled and rubbed his face. “I will reprimand my clients, sir. Severely, I assure you. But I can’t leave the city until Luc’s killers are caught and punished. I swore a sacred oath to Jupiter Almighty.”  
  
“I don’t care if you swore an oath to every fucking god in the entire Olympian Pantheon. You will leave Rome after the testament is made public. I will not have petty violence between your men and Publius’s catty minions clogging the streets of our fair capital. Do you understand me, Commander Fabius?”   
  
Stewing in silence, Gaius and Marcus stared at each other until Gaius whispered, “I will not leave. I swore a fucking oath.”  
  
His face beetroot red, Marcus stood and screamed. “You will do as I order, soldier! Otherwise, I shall have the Praetorians drag your arse out of Rome in iron shackles. And as for you?” Panting, Marcus shook his finger at Publius. All hushed conversations stopped. “You, Publius Aelius Hadrianus, will control your clients’ wagging tongues. I want those murderers found, and I will not have you and your friends hampering my investigation!”  
  
Publius gasped, glancing at Sabina for support. When she turned her back on him, he blubbered. “What—what did I do?”  
  
“You did nothing, my dearest Publius.” Plotina marched to Publius’s couch and reached down to cup his bearded face. “Our esteemed Emperor simply asks that you and your men cooperate fully with his imperial agents.”  
  
“We have cooperated, mother. Shall I be interrogated next, tortured until I make a false confession like some wretched slave? I was not a part of any crime!”  
  
“Enough! No one is accusing you of complicity, Publius, but you will do as I command. I am the fucking emperor of Rome!” Marcus’s snarl dissolved into a coughing fit. Plotina rushed to his side and took hold of his elbow. “My most esteemed Emperor, please sit down. Undue aggravation is dangerous for your health. Remember what your doctor advised?”  
  
Marcus slowly reclined on the couch, breathing hard and rubbing his chest. Plotina placed a plush pillow under his head and stroked his thinning hair as two slaves fanned him with palm leaves. When his breaths grew less labored, she turned to face Publius, who was now standing beside Gaius, arguing with him in a soft but incensed voice.   
  
The Empress screeched. “Stop quarreling, both of you! You heard our glorious Emperor’s orders.” She wiped her lips and adopted an artificially pleasant voice. “Now that that’s settled let’s all relax and enjoy the rest of this evening’s festivities. It’s a party, after all. The chefs have prepared exquisite desserts.”  
  
“I do so love sweets,” Memmia mumbled to Marcia, as Gaius returned to his spot on their couch.  
  
“What, by gods, did you say to the emperor?” She asked her husband.  
  
“Nothing. He claims I’m interfering with his investigation.”  
  
“How so?”  
  
“By being here. Apparently, a few of my idiotic clients roughed up two of Publius’s associates today.” Gaius shook his head and gulped down a giant swallow of wine. “A bystander was killed.”  
  
“What will you do?”  
  
“What I’ve been ordered to do—leave the city in two days time.”  
  
“For how long, Gaius?”  
  
“Until the emperor grants me permission to return. Marcus will arrest someone for Luc’s murder, sooner or later. I’ll come back to the capital for the trial if there is one.”  
  
“That could take months.”  
  
“Or longer. And all the while, Plotina will make sure that Publius remains in Rome to dispense favors, sponsor festivals, and bribe informers. His prestige and authority with the proletariat and the Praetorians will strengthen. He’ll be fucking insufferable.”  
  
“He’s already insufferable.”  
  
“I would not be surprised if Plotina convinces Marcus to adopt him as the official heir before I return.”  
  
“Gaius, we can’t allow that to happen.” Marcia dropped her voice. “What about the baby?”  
  
“At this moment, there is no fucking baby, is there?” Gaius sat up and rubbed his temples. “I have no options, Marcia. You’ll send regular reports to Campania regarding Zoe’s condition?”  
  
Flabbergasted, Marcia exhaled. “Yes, of course.”  
  
“Who or what is this Zoe?” Memmia asked, but a rush of bustling activity quickly distracted everyone. Through the service door, a flock of slaves dressed as parrots flew into the dining hall. Each bright green bird carried a large golden dish of scrumptious desserts: fried cream cakes, cheese pastries, bowls of spiced egg pudding, poached peaches, an assortment of cookies and soufflés, and candied Syrian pears. With her skeletal fingers, Memmia snatched up one of every kind. The old bint suffered an insatiable sweet tooth.  
  
Without warning, Marcia sat up, cleared her throat, and stood. “My most honorable Emperor Trajan, may I say something?”  
  
Another hush followed by whispers hummed through the hall. Marcia Servilia tended to remain respectably quiet at family gatherings.  
  
“Of course, my dear. But I warn you—do not attempt to dissuade me. Your husband must leave Rome in two days. I will not change my mind.” Marcus’s tone was gentle but stern.  
  
“Yes, Emperor Trajan. I accept that my husband must depart the city for the sake of your investigation, but—but I would like to make an announcement.”  
  
Silence.   
  
Tapping the edge of her gilded couch with her fingernails, Plotina cocked her head. “Yes? We’re all waiting.”  
  
“The goddesses have blessed us.” Marcia rubbed her abdomen and smiled. “Rome shall welcome a new member of our illustrious family shortly after the Saturnalia.”  
  
The blood drained from Gaius’s face. He grabbed a fistful of the folds of his wife’s dress and tugged, but she ignored him and continued. “I am delighted to announce to all present that I am with child.”  
  
They hadn’t discussed any formal announcement!  
  
Not here at this disaster of a dinner. Not now.  
  
Shit.  
  
Their risky scheme had become real. The most dangerous game of all had begun; gods help them.  
  
Gaius released his grip on her dress and swore a string of curses under his breath as Marcus shoved Plotina to the side and jumped off his couch. “You and Gaius are having a baby? Thank Juno Lucina! Thank most holy Fortuna!” He trotted over to Marcia and dropped to one knee, taking both of her hands into his. “You’ve been touched by the fecundity and grace of the virgin huntress, my daughter. You have been chosen to deliver Rome’s future.”   
  
The emperor stood and lifted his palms to the heavens. “Thanks to omnipotent Jove and wise Minerva and torch-bearing Apollo and….” His somber prayers softened to giggles of joy. “And to all the other glorious gods of this great empire whose names I cannot recall at this wondrous moment! There's to be a grandchild. My grandchild!” Marcus lowered his arms and addressed his wife. “Empress Plotina, order the priestesses to make offerings of thanks at the altars every morning and evening until the next full moon.” Marcus pulled Marcia into a cautious embrace. “You, dear girl, shall move into the palace for the duration of your pregnancy.”  
  
“You are most generous, my esteemed Emperor, but I must decline your kind offer. Our physician has advised that my health and the health of this baby would benefit most from the cool breezes and salubrious air of my country estate at Lake Albano. With your permission, I would prefer to reside there until my husband returns to Rome.”  
  
“Sage advice. Summers in Rome are plagued by pestilence. Of course, you may go to Albano but I will require that Memmia Cornelia join you.”  
  
Marcia glanced at Memmia, who was trying to shove an entire sugary pastry into her mouth. “You are most thoughtful, sir. I should also request that Counselor Petronius’s widow, Aurelia, accompany me to Albano. She's a pleasant companion and a witty conversationalist.”  
  
“Of course, of course!" Marcus turned and extended his arm. “Gaius Fabius, come here. Your wife will stay at her Alban estate while you are away. I will dispatch my most trusted sentries to protect her during your absence. And—my hearty congratulations, Commander.” Marcus pulled Gaius closer and patted his back as he whispered into his ear. “Good work, soldier. I knew the Lion of the Lucky Fourth would sow his Fabian seed, eventually. I’ll call you back to the capital when I have the murderers in custody.”    
  
Across the dining room, Publius’s mouth hung slack while Plotina dabbed her perspiring brow as she tried to catch her breath. Sabina simply smiled and hoisted her silver cup in salute, shaking her head in amused astonishment.   
  
It was now official: Gaius Fabius Rufus would be the first imperial ward to produce an offspring. If the child was male and survived, the contest for the throne was over.  
  
“Congratulations, Gaius.” It was all Publius could manage to grumble before he tossed back the rest of his wine.   
  
“Thank you, little brother. We are most blessed. Behave yourself while I’m away on holiday, yes?”  
  
Gaius turned around to find Maximus staring down into his eyes. With an incredulous smile, Max said, “A thousand compliments, Commander.”  
  
“Yes, well let us pray that Fortuna, in her infinite wisdom, does not abandon us. Escort Domina and Avia back to the Caelian. Tell the staff to begin preparations for our departure to Campania. We leave Rome in two days time. I will return to the house tonight before the sixth hour. I expect the dessert that I ordered will be waiting for me in my master chamber, yes?”  
  
“Yes, sir. I procured a beauty whose appearance matches most of your specifications. But may I ask where you’ll be in the meantime?”  
  
“I must find Titus Petronius. The reading of Luc’s testament will be pandemonium, as these public spectacles always are. All of Rome will be there, hanging like monkeys from the damn second-floor balustrades of the basilica. It will be a madhouse; Titus and I won’t have an opportunity to speak privately, and I have instructions for him.”  
  
“Then you’re headed to his estate on the Esquiline, Commander?”  
  
“Gods, no. At this hour, I expect my former Tribune will be sharing war stories over cups of ale. I’m going to the docks.”   
  
Max protested. “The city is dangerous after dark, Commander. You shouldn’t travel the streets alone without a retinue.”  
  
“I appreciate your concern, Maximus, but it’s misguided.” Gaius patted the ivory-handled dagger hidden under the heavy folds of his mantle and lifted the hem of his long tunic to reveal a second lethal blade strapped to his calf. “I’ll be cautious; I’m not a lawyer. Tell Varius to meet me there.”  
  
“And where is there, sir?”  
  
“Scrofa’s shithole.”  
  


**~~~~~**

  
**_Tavern of Salvius Scrofa, Rome_ **   
  


 

His head covered, Gaius pushed open the heavy door and stepped over the threshold. A red ceramic cup flew through the dusty air, whizzing past his nose and barely missing his left shoulder before it smashed into pieces when it hit the adjacent wall.  
  
“You swindled me, you cunt-licking fart!”  
  
With one dark eyebrow arched, Titus grinned as he counted his pile of winnings. “Now, now… watch your language, Blaesus. There are ladies present.”  
  
“What ladies?” Blaesus glanced up at the rickety wooden railing of the second-floor balcony. “All I see are money-grubbing whores with their tits hanging out.”  
  
The five or so men who had crowded the table to watch the dice game laughed and slapped each other on the back as the plastered veteran, Blaesus, pleaded. “Io, be a sport and give us another chance then, sir. That’s a month’s wages. My wife will murder me if I return home with an empty purse.”  
  
Titus carefully picked through the stack before he tossed his opponent a shiny denarius. “I'll gift you a coin minted by the Divine Augustus—pure silver, not debased like the emperor’s new specie. Now, you may thank me for saving your cuckolded balls.” Chuckling, Titus pushed his chair back and crossed his arms. “And I do not cheat at dice, you filthy dog.”  
  
“You’re a thief and a liar, Titus Petronius!” Gaius roared with a smirk from the doorway. The veterans seated at the wooden tavern tables stopped talking and turned as Gaius removed his hood, revealing his mess of distinct auburn curls. They all staggered to their feet and straightened their pickled postures. One spastic fool knocked over an entire pitcher of drink; the amber ale puddled in the wide cracks between the limestone floor pavers.  
  
“Commander Fabius, sir.” They saluted in near but not precise unison. Discipline had become lax.  
  
Fucking peacetime.  
  
Titus pushed himself from his chair and bowed with an exaggerated flourish. “Greetings to our most victorious commander, the illustrious conqueror of the dreaded Dacians. Ah, I see you brought your faithful sidekick. Greetings to you as well, Varius.”  
  
Varius lumbered over and offered his hand. “Greetings, Tribune Petronius. Welcome home, sir.”  
  
“Tsk, tsk… that’s not quite right.” Titus wagged his figure with the unsteady tremor of one too many drinks. “I am Governor Petronius now, the Senate’s caretaker of our fair Achaea.”  
  
Gaius wrapped one arm around Varius’s shoulder, the other around Titus. “Varius, the Senate shipped this shithead off to Greece after the last campaign. A promotion, they claimed. Our friend here has no doubt returned home laden with eastern riches. Buy us all a round of drink, Tribune Petronius. Wait—make that two fucking rounds. Listen up, lads. I have an announcement. I’m going to be a father!”    
  
Their cups raised, the veterans cheered as Gaius meandered through the groups and patted men on the back, addressing each fellow by name. When he reached the far table, Scrofa waddled over with a tray of cups filled to the brim with drink. Gaius lifted one for a toast. “To fruitful Aphrodite! May she bless us all with healthy boys and obedient bastards!”  
  
“Blessed Venus! Mother of Rome!” Everyone replied.  
  
He swallowed his ale in three gulps and belched. “Now, who here is responsible for the attack on the clients of my unborn child’s uncle?”  
  
A rustle of remorseful murmurs as their shamed arses fidgeted in their chairs.  
  
“There will be no more quarreling with Publius Aelius’s men. That’s an order. I have his assurances that his associates will likewise behave as the gentlemen they pretend to be. Understood?”  
  
Affirmative grunts echoed through the room.  
  
“Your behavior reflects poorly on us all. Thanks to your fucking recklessness, the emperor has ordered me to leave the city. While I’m banished—temporarily, mind you—from my beloved Rome, you will do as I command.” He stalked around the room, stealing swallows of ale from random cups. “You will stay home—and tend to your families—and fulfill your damn civic duties as proper, law-abiding citizens. Fuck whatever it is you fuck but stay off the streets. Understood?”  
  
More nods and grunts.  
  
“And if I send orders demanding action on your part, you will follow them without question. Obey me, and when I return you will receive your promised grants of arable land and donatives of silver.”  
  
“Yes, Commander.” The veterans answered that time as if they were a well-rehearsed chorus.  
  
“Excellent. Bring that second serving of ale.” Gaius tipped his chin towards Titus. “With our deepest gratitude to Governor Petronius, of course, the wealthy concubine of bountiful Greece.”  
  
With an ear-to-ear grin, Titus lifted his cup. “Congratulations, Commander Fabius. It’s good to be home.”  
  
Gaius wiped his mouth and sighed. “If only all the circumstances were joyous, Titus.”  
  
“Indeed, sir.”  
  
After he'd received another cup from Scrofa, Gaius waved Titus over to share a table with him near the hearth. When Varius plopped down onto a nearby bench, Gaius ordered the veteran to leave.  
  
“A private conversation, then?” Titus asked as he pulled out a chair and sat down.  
  
“Most private.” Gaius paused and scrubbed his chin. “I need someone in charge here in Rome while I’m gone. My clients require supervision, and they respect you.”   
  
“Consider it done.” Titus paused. “Commander, forgive my impertinence, but why has the emperor ordered you to leave the city? According to what I’ve heard, the fight today was little more than foolish tussle. The Emperor’s actions seem a bit rash considering the circumstances, no?”  
  
“Now that you mention it…” Gaius furrowed his brow as he tapped the side of his drinking cup with his fingertips.  
  
His elbows on the table, Titus leaned forward. “Who killed my brother?”  
  
“I don’t know, but they’ll pay for their crime. This attack wasn’t some random act of street violence; Lucius was murdered for a reason. I’m inviting Gaius Plinius to join me in Campania for a short stay. He knows more than he’s revealed thus far.”  
  
“The lawyer?”  
  
“Our dear Pliny hosted the dinner party that your brother attended the evening he was killed. Luc was murdered a short distance down the street from Pliny’s residence.”  
  
He tried to hide it, but Titus bristled at Gaius’s affectionate nickname for his older brother. “Then it was an ambush. And if Pliny refuses to share what he knows?”  
  
“I won’t give him that option. Pliny and I shall drink and dine well under the southern Italian stars, during which time he’ll tell me all about the whispered rumors that are circulating through the courts.”  
  
“And why would he do that?”  
  
“Always with the fucking questions, Titus. Shit, you never change. He’ll reveal what he knows because Pliny loves and fears me—a powerfully persuasive combination.”  
  
Titus rubbed his bloodshot, glassy eyes. “My poor brother. I can’t believe Lucius is dead. I always thought that I would die first on the battlefield.”  
  
Staring at the swill in the bottom of his cup, Gaius said nothing for a few moments. On the other side of the tavern, a group of veterans swayed back and forth, slurring the words of an old marching song.  
  
“You’re wearing his ring.” Titus noticed.  
  
Gaius glanced at Luc’s gold signet ring on the middle finger of his left hand. Shit, he’d forgotten to remove it before he left the house that morning. He sighed as he ran his fingertip over the stamped image of an oak leaf. Luc was gone, but his token of authority had been with Gaius all day—at the palace, in the baths, at the amphitheater to witness the grisly execution of that Dacian peasant boy.   
  
“I'm safeguarding Luc’s ring until his testament is unsealed.” Gaius balled his hand into a fist. “I swore an oath of vengeance before Capitoline Jove to find and destroy his killers, but I have another mission for you, one that requires persistence tempered by absolute discretion.”  
  
“Then I am to stay in Rome for the duration of your absence?”  
  
“And yet another bloody question. Listen, closely. I need you to discover the names and the Eagle of a band of legionary scouts who were assigned to spy the perimeter of the Carpathian Mountains.”  
  
Titus narrowed his blue eyes; he had the same pattern of laugh wrinkles at the corners as had Lucius. Gaius looked away and wiped his nose. Gods, he missed Luc.  
  
“The Carpathians cover an enormous territory, Commander. Can you be more specific? Do you have a timeframe for when this occurred?”  
  
Gaius drained the last dregs, picked up his empty cup, and smashed it on the edge of the table, startling everyone in the tavern.   
  
“Harmless accident, lads. Back to your merriment!”   
  
He burped as he bent down to pick up the largest piece of broken pottery. Gaius held the cup fragment in one hand and withdrew his dagger from its scabbard. “These are the major peaks of the Carpathians, yes?” He asked as he scratched a crescent shape filled with triangles into the surface of the red shard with the point of his blade. “A few days before the Ides of June, a squadron of scouts patrolled here, along the eastern edge of the western valley below the southern spur. Find out who these scouts were and to whom they reported.”  
  
“They would have reported to a centurion.”  
  
“Exactly. Message me details when you have all the names. Use a private courier whom you trust without question.”  
  
“Don’t you also want to know what information these scouts collected?”  
  
“I already know what they found.”   
  
 _Allerix._  
  
Gaius pushed away from the table and stood. “Oh, one last thing. I need to know which bastard in this pisshole encouraged the men to fight my brother’s twits today.”  
  
Titus surveyed the crowd of men and exhaled. “I’ll find out who it was.”  
  
“When you do, flog our over-enthusiastic ruffian in front of the others. Scar him, teach him a lesson, but don’t kill him. Murder is an offense to the gods.”  
  
Titus chuckled. “And a punishable crime, assuming our laws haven’t changed during my short tenure in Athens.”  
  
“And that is why I have assigned this task to you, Tribune Petronius. You’ve always been most my competent and furtive hound.” Gaius snatched Titus’s cup of drink and finished it off before slamming the vessel on the table. “I’ll see you in the Julian basilica for the reading of Luc’s testament. Give my regards to your lovely wife.”  
  
“She hates you, sir.”  
  
“Antonia’s an excellent judge of character. Farewell and good health. I’m must go now; I have a long-overdue reward waiting for me back at my estate on the Caelian.” Gaius paused as he headed for the door. “And, Titus?”  
  
“Commander?”  
  
“Welcome home.”  
  
~~~~~

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

                                                                       


  
  
**_Gaius Fabius’s mansion, The Caelian Hill, Rome_ **  
  


“Let me have a look at you,” Gaius ordered from his seat near the terrace of his master chamber. Leaning against the backrest of the chair with his legs splayed, he untied the belt of his white mantle to reveal his conspicuous lust. He’d grown weary of Marcia’s voluptuous nymphs, but he no longer housed his male pleasure slaves at his mansion in the capital. With his full balls aching for release, Gaius now regretted that rash decision. Despite his simmering resentment over Marcus’s orders to leave the city, he couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of Rome and return to his boys at his seaside villa.  
  
To Allerix—his beautiful barbarian enigma.  
  
At least for tonight, Gaius could indulge his fantasies.  
  
Standing by the light of the bronze candelabra, the dark-haired prostitute unclasped his hands, letting his lean arms fall to his sides. He lifted his cleft chin up high to show off his attractive profile as he’d clearly been taught to do.  
  
Max had chosen well.   
  
The lad was about the same age and a close physical match: long legs; nicely muscled but not bulky; big brown eyes; a small curved nose and full, pouty lips. Perfectly androgynous, not that Gaius was usually drawn to delicate-featured men, at least not until he’d laid his eyes on Allerix. The prostitute on display front of him was no spirited Dacian, however. This statuesque faun was an exclusive treat available only to customers who could afford his body.  
  
“What are you called, boy?”   
  
“My name is Paris, sir.” The high-priced whore had a distinct northern Gallic accent. Not as melodious as Alle’s singsong cadence, but still lovely.  
  
“Paris, hmm?” Gaius stood up and walked behind the attractive lad to inspect his sleek physique from different angles. He lifted the loose transparent tunic off of Paris’s left shoulder and then his right; the pale blue silk fluttered down and pooled around the whore’s ankles. Gaius drew his arm back and slapped his bum; Paris didn’t flinch though his lightly bronzed skin quickly flushed bright pink.  
  
“Firm and red—a perfect Trojan apple,” Gaius whispered and caressed the warm handprint he’d left on Paris’s cheek. With a chuckle, Gaius strode back to his chair, sat down, and spread his knees apart. “Bring me a cup of wine and come kneel at my feet.”   
  
Paris glided over to the serving table and poured a generous serving of red wine into one of the sculpted golden cups. With a flirtatious sway to his narrow hips, he carried the drink over, handed the cup to Gaius, and dropped to his knees with his hands folded behind his back. The lad was graceful—not as graceful as Bryaxis, but impressively nimble.  
  
After enjoying a healthy gulp, Gaius lifted the boy’s face with his finger and offered him a sip. The liquid trickled down Paris’s throat, a few rogue drops spilling from the corners of his luscious mouth.   
Gaius ran his thumb pad over the mounds of the whore’s wet lower lip. “Wrap your pretty mouth around my cock. Let’s find out what a few bits of silver buy these days.”  
  
He watched Paris take his engorged length between his lips and swallow him down with ease. Gaius tipped his head back, closed his eyes, and imagined it was Alle sucking his prick. As he tangled his fingers in the prostitute’s hair, he pictured Allerix’s long black lashes, his shapely lips, his long fingers, and his perfect arse. He undressed the phantasm in his mind until Alle was the naked whore kneeling at his feet, worshipping his thick vein with his hot mouth, moaning around his shaft with wanton desire.  
  
“My beautiful, naughty warrior. Gods, your mouth feels good.” Gaius whispered with a grin. But when he glanced down a second time, the prostitute’s seductive moans morphed in his mind to terrified, guttural wails. Desperate cries for help, agonizing screams for mercy. He saw Allerix desperately tug his silver slave collar as he thrashed against the bindings and hollered,  _“Zalmoxis, giver of eternal life, punish this savage Roman butcher!”_  
  
With the echoes of Allerix’s imagined curse ricocheting inside his skull, Gaius envisioned a pack of monstrous war dogs ripping his Dacian to shreds. Alle’s royal blood sprayed everywhere, soaking every seat in the amphitheater and saturating Gaius’s white toga with sopping streaks of warm crimson.  
  
“Sir, is there something wrong?” Paris asked nervously, after Gaius’s prick went limp and slipped out of his wet mouth.   
  
“By Hercules, what are these torments that plague me?” Gaius covered his eyes with his fists and tried to ignore the ghastly images and sounds polluting his imagination, but it was futile. The harder he tried, the louder and more persistent the scene replayed over and over. He gripped the arms of his chair until his knuckles turned pale and gnawed the inside of his cheek before he reached for his cup and threw it at the wall.  The dregs of his wine splattered blood red over the pale frescos. “Stop!”  
  
Gaius grabbed the whore by his black hair and pulled him up until his nose was level with Paris’s wide, unblinking eyes. “What fucking games are you playing, Alle?”   
  
Baffled, Paris stuttered a string of incomprehensible protests as Gaius dragged him over to the enormous bed and threw him face first down on the mattress.  He wrapped his palm around his soft cock and tugged hard, pausing every so often to slap his flaccid prick against the firm curve of the prostitute’s bum cheeks. But even the prospect of pounding that delicious arse wouldn’t harden his uncooperative member. Frustrated, he stepped back and grumbled. “Leave.”  
  
With fear in his eyes, Paris peered over his shoulder and asked, “Leave, sir? I—I don’t understand.”  
  
“Neither do I. Maximus! Get in here!”   
  
Max opened the door and ducked his head into the bedroom. “Commander? Is everything all right?”  
  
Gaius pulled his cloak tight around his torso. “Have two guards escort this useless trollop back to wherever it came from.”  
  
Max jogged over and picked up Paris’s gauzy tunic. As he dragged the naked prostitute towards the door by his arm, Max reassured. “I’ll have your coin reimbursed, sir.”  
  
“No, it’s not the lad’s fault. It’s been a long shitty day, and I’ve consumed too much drink. Just get him out of here.”  
  
Max carefully closed the door behind them while Gaius extinguished all but one lamp before he slumped back into his chair. In the spaces between the slender columns of terrace balustrade, a field of shimmering stars filled the late night sky. The slim crescent of the waning moon would disappear before they set out for Campania. It would take longer to travel to Puteoli without moonlight, but they’d finally escape this marble sewer of politics and lies.   
  
In less than two days, Lucius’s testament would be unsealed, and his last words read out loud before all of Rome. Once that last rite was over, his dearest friend would fall mute to the perpetual silence of death as his spirit waited for justice—justice that Marcus had greedily snatched from Gaius’s rightful grasp. It was no wonder that he was going insane.  
  
In this raging storm of vengeance and feigned pregnancies and manipulation, all he could think about was Allerix. Gaius combed his fingers through his hair and sighed. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”   
  
He needed to go home to his villa; he needed to finish this struggle with his Dacian pet. He would not allow him to haunt his dreams or cloud his judgment. He would tame Alle, or he would sell him to the mines like any other common heathen. But there was nothing to be done about that tonight. Gaius stood up and padded to the serving table for another swig of drink.   
  
“You have the sickness of Aphrodite.”   
  
Gaius froze, but the wine continued to pour out of the jug until the burgundy liquid gushed over the lip of the cup and spilled all over the table. He took a deep breath and slowly turned around, but there was nothing. The room was dark, lit only by the bronze lamp flickering by his chair, quiet except for the rapid beat of his racing heart and the crickets chirping outside.   
  
He turned back towards the wall with his shoulders slouched and grabbed on to the edge of the table. “Marvelous. Now I’m hearing voices.”  
  
“Your mind’s been poisoned by Cupid’s passion.”  
  
He balled his clammy hands into fists and spun around. “Who’s there?”  
  
“Come closer.” Whispered the deep voice from the bed, as if the pillows and bedcovers were beckoning him. As he drew closer, a shape materialized on top of the mattress. The pale apparition of something large, a nefarious cloud shaped like a human body.   
  
“What are you?” Gaius wanted to ask, but only the first word left his lips before he gasped and jumped back three paces. The specter of a tall man wearing a golden crown and a tattered senatorial toga lay across his bed.  
  
“Don’t you recognize me, Gaius Fabius Rufus?” The thing replied with its huge arms outstretched as if inviting him to embrace.  
  
“Maximus! Guards!” Gaius shouted while he cinched his summer cloak tightly around his waist and backpedaled towards the exit. Max burst through the door, followed by two sentries with their swords drawn.   
  
“Sir?”  
  
Gaius panted while pointing. “Maximus, what do you see on the bed?”  
  
“Bedcovers and… some pillows, sir. Do you wish me to have the steward freshen your bedding?”  
  
“For the love of all that is holy, you can’t see that heinous creature lying there?”  
  
Max cautiously approached the bed for closer inspection. “No, Commander. I see nothing out of the ordinary, sir.”  
  
Gaius rubbed his eyes hard but the ghost remained. It tipped its ghoulish head and smiled; its white teeth glowed brightly in contrast to its gray gloomy frame. Gaius exhaled and dropped his arm. He swayed and staggered until Max rushed over and caught him. “Are you feeling ill, sir?”  
  
“Too much drink, too little sleep. I need to lie down and rest.”  
  
“Let me help you to the bed, Commander.”  
  
“For fuck’s sake, I’m not staying here. I’ll retire to a spare bedroom.”  
  
“Take my arm, sir,” Max urged as he extended his left forearm and wrapped his other arm around Gaius’s torso. “There’s a guest room down the hall. Hold on to me, Commander.”  
  
Together they toddled down the wide vaulted corridor, past the closed doors of two rooms and a series of paintings of Ulysses’ treacherous voyage that decorated both walls of the grand hallway.  
  
“I’m drunk.” Gaius garbled. “This is disgraceful.”  
  
“You’ll feel better in the morning, sir. A pitcher of water and a good night’s sleep is all you need.”  
  
“But I actually heard its words, Max. I’ve felt the presence of the ghosts that haunt this house before, but that—that  _manifestation_  fucking spoke to me.” Gaius abruptly stopped in his tracks. After he'd shrugged off Max’s arm off, he muttered in fury. “I will not be driven out of my master chamber in my own fucking house by some monstrous phantom of my imagination.” He turned around, marched back to his suite, and slammed the door shut behind him, leaving Max dumbstruck out in the corridor.  
  
His nostrils flared as Gaius motioned to the terrace and slurred. “Be gone, whatever the fuck you are!”  
  
“I’ve been waiting for you, Lion of the Lucky Fourth.”  
  
Again, that eerie voice, but it sounded more familiar this time.  
  
His trepidation tampered by determination, Gaius teetered to the bed and climbed onto the mattress on all fours. As he crawled closer to the head of the bed, the apparition grew more visible, more defined. As if a thick fog were lifting, the illusion became more real. The ghostly dark hollows beneath its heavy brow gradually transformed into light blue eyes that sparkled with life.  
  
“Greetings, my gorgeous soldier. Did you miss me?”  
  
A sound close to a whimper escaped Gaius’s lips. “Lucius?”  
  
“In the flesh—well, not flesh exactly.” The phantom took hold of Gaius’s hand and squeezed. The thing was all hard bone and scaly skin and so fucking cold. Freezing.   
  
Gaius jerked his hand out of the ghost’s spooky grasp. “How is this possible?”  
  
“You daft adorable boy.” Some invisible force playfully ruffled Gaius’s curls. “At the mausoleum of my family you made a most generous offering.”  
  
“I sacrificed pigs in your honor. We celebrated your memory with a feast.”  
  
“Yes, and you poured that refreshing Chalcidian wine down the lead pipe to Hades. After I'd lapped up every drop of that reviving elixir, I found myself free of my tomb. I've been patiently waiting to chat with you in private.” The spirit lowered its deep baritone voice to a hush. “Are you aware that this mansion is packed to the rafters with angry ghosts, Gaius? Your dead father wanders about these halls in extreme distress, mumbling all sorts of rants and curses. Shit, he’s bloody scary.”  
  
“Old dead and disgraced Quintus frightens you? Ha! Wait until you encounter the bitter ancestral spirits who rattle chains and howl. But why are you here, Lucius?”  
  
“I was released from the dreaded underworld to exact revenge, of course. Most of the departed who cross back over the River Styx do so because vengeance burns in their lifeless hearts. Tell me, how do I look? Am I more handsome than you remembered? Younger?”  
  
Gaius’s shock gave way to incredulous laughter. “You vain son of a bitch! How do you look? You look—dead. You’re a living corpse, despite the fact that your body burned to ash on the funeral pyre.”  
  
Gaius scrambled off the bed and stood with his arms crossed, swaying back and forth. “So solve the mystery for us, oh carcass of Narcissus. Who killed you?”  
  
The spirit sighed as it stretched its wraithlike limbs. “I don’t know. I can’t recall their faces; they struck and disappeared before I knew what had happened.”  
  
“Assassins, I suspect. What information did you uncover during your investigation of the treasury embezzlement, counselor?”  
  
“I—I don’t remember.”  
  
Gaius dropped his arms in exasperation and belched. “Brilliant. Blasted Pluto sends me the grisly spirit of my dead conceited lover, and the bastard can’t recall a bloody thing!”  
  
Ghost Luc slid off the mattress and trudged across the room to the serving table. He lifted an ornate bronze jug and sighed. “Alas, there’s no wine other than the occasional graveside offering in the underworld; you’d be wise to drink as much Falernian as you can stomach while you’re alive, darling.” Lucius turned around and wagged his finger at Gaius’s groin. “Now, let’s discuss your little problem.”   
  
Gaius cupped his genitals and snarled.  “A temporary affliction, I assure you. I consumed too much grape and ale.”  
  
“Rubbish. I’ve seen your bladdered prick pummel a harem of camp whores raw. Your impotence had nothing to do with drink.” The phantom of Lucius tapped its head with its bony finger. “It’s all in the mind, darling. That prostitute you just dismissed resembled that Dacian beauty you had me purchase for you at Decius’s auction. You tried to fuck a substitute, but your cock wasn’t fooled. By the most blessed gods, Gaius Fabius is in love. Admit it! You’ve lost your heart to that furry barbarian slave of yours, haven’t you?”  
  
Gaius lurched, snatching the wine jug from the ghost’s hand, and swallowed three sloppy gulps. He wiped the drops from his lips and growled. “Why are you fucking here, Luc?”  
  
“Changing the subject, hmm? I told you—revenge.”  
  
“I promise that the criminals will be hunted down and executed. Marcus has his men scouring the city night and day for those fuckers.”  
  
“You don’t understand, love. I don’t give a rat’s arse about whoever murdered me. I’m dead; it’s done. No, I’m here to avenge the mutilation of Bryaxis. I will kill everyone in this shithole city who took part in the castration of my pet.” Lucius sobbed as he rested his skeletal hand on Gaius’s shoulder; an icy shiver sliced through Gaius’s gut. “How—how is my sweet Bryaxis?”  
  
His finger shaking, Gaius gestured towards the door. “Go and see for yourself, Luc. He’s here in a cell in the slave quarters; as we agreed long ago, I’m guarding him until the inheritance magistrates unseal and read your testament.”  
  
“Alas, I’ve already seen him.” The apparition of Lucius confessed; his eyes were glassy with sorrow as he sat down on the edge of the serving table. “I visited him late last night; he was reading Homer.” When Lucius paused, his ghostly glow dimmed. “Bry wasn’t able to see me or hear my words. He couldn’t feel my touch or taste my kiss. He just sat there, cold and detached, oblivious to my presence. My heart fucking shattered, Gaius.”  
  
As the room started to spin, Gaius groaned and sat down beside the specter. “He loved you; that arrogant whore will always love you. I’m sorry that I arrived too late to prevent his injuries. But your Caledonian will recover; he’ll heal, and I promise, as long as it is in my power, he’ll live a long life. Did you bequeath ownership of Bryaxis to me or Titus?”  
  
“To you, of course. Titus and Gallus already have enough mouths to feed. Neither of my brothers needs another financial burden.”  
  
“Oh, fortunate me.” Gaius exhaled as he scratched his scalp. “Your despicable widow advised me to sell Bryaxis on the eunuch market.”  
  
“Aurelia is a spiteful bitch. She’ll suffer dearly for what she did. But heed my words: if you sell my Bry, you will have no peace. I’ll haunt your dreams for eternity, Gaius Fabius.”  
  
“You already are—you and that Dacian rascal of mine. And I am not in love with the barbarian. I’m merely fascinated with him. Call me intrigued by his contradictions.”  
  
The apparition snickered. “You’re an imbecilic clod. Barbarians know nothing of noble love. He’ll only deceive you and break you heart.”  
  
“Bryaxis is a fucking barbarian, is he not? Enough of this nonsense! Lucius, I have to leave Rome. The emperor has ordered my departure from the capital; I’m traveling down to Campania after the inheritance proceedings are over and Bryaxis will accompany my escort to the villa. There’s plenty of space in the stable house, and he’ll be safe there. And there’s work to occupy him.” Gaius rested his elbows on his knees and took a deep breath. “Come with us, Luc. Leave this tomb of a city and join me.”  
  
“I can’t.” Despite his soft chuckle, Luc’s specter was fading. “I tried to visit you at your villa after the attack... I couldn’t get past the door of the mausoleum, let alone cross the sacred boundary of the city. I may be free of my sepulcher thanks to your gift of revitalizing nectar, but I’m still trapped in Rome like a rat in a dank cistern.”  
  
“Perhaps not.” Gaius turned to face the pale vision of his dead lover and grinned. “There’s an old legend about a distant ancestor of mine—a Cornelius— a fantastic fable that my Avia use to recite with a gleam in her eye. Memmia Cornelia has lived a long life; she knows about the possible improbabilities of this world.”  
  
“I would never underestimate your grandmother, bless her crotchety soul. Is she well?”  
  
Gaius stood and staggered to the bed. With a pained grunt, he slowly lowered his arse on the mattress. “Yes, she’s as healthy as a bear—a hungry, ornery old sow. Listen, I want you with me in Puteoli; we need to talk. If there’s any truth that that legend, there may be a way for you to travel to Campania. Are you willing to break the law, my dear counselor.”  
  
“I’m dead; there are very few laws to uphold anymore.”  
  
Gaius fell back on the plush mattress and stared at the ceiling. He clenched the thick bedcovers to try and force the room to stop spinning. “Ah, but there’s a catch. I must also be willing to believe in the powers of our inattentive gods.”  
  
“Then we both make sacrifices. What’s your plan?” Ghost Luc asked as he lay down beside Gaius.  
  
“What happened to the nymph Daphne when golden Apollo laid his filthy divine hands on her chaste body?”  
  
“Metamorphosis. Her father cast a spell and turned her into a laurel tree. I always adored that lusty tale—I have a small sculpture of Apollo and Daphne in my library—but it’s a myth. It’s only a story; it’s not real.”  
  
“Says the fucking ghost of my dead best friend. Luc, we all know that there are truths buried deep in our myths. Did you know that the sorceresses of the ancient groves practice powerful rites with rare plants and potions? They chant archaic incantations and control the unnatural. But if we attempt this magic, we’ll risk the wrath of our most holy Lares. The gods may condemn our spirits to damnation.”  
  
“So we’re going break the law and fuck with the omnipotent household divinities, then? Are you sure this is wise?”  
  
“No.” Gaius rubbed his temples and cackled as his words slurred into one another. “May every fury and grace of the heavenly immortals protect and forgive us.”   
  
“Shit, you’re plastered. Do you know where to find one of these formidable herb witches?”  
  
“Yes, right here. I fucking own her. Do you remember Simon’s mother, Callidora?”  
  
“That old spiteful harpy?” Ghost Luc’s shook its head. “You are mad.”  
  
“Deranged and as drunk as a pickled eel. Gods, this bloody room won’t stop fucking whirling. I’m so damn tired.”  
  
No sooner had Gaius’s eyes closed than he began snoring. Ghost Luc pulled the covers over his half-draped companion and brushed a rogue auburn curl off of Gaius’s sweaty forehead.  
  
“Pleasant dreams, my handsome troubled soldier. And, whether or not you admit it, you are in love. I know the curse well and I pray that cruel Aphrodite grants you more solace than agony, more joy than pain, darling.”  
  
With a despondent sigh, Lucius rose from the bed and extinguished the lamp. As wisps of smoke from the smothered flame dissipated into the night air, he looked up at the waning moon and disappeared.   
  
~~~~~


	10. Chapter 10

 

 **_The Julian Basilica, Old Forum, Rome  
_ **  


 

 

  
  
“People of Rome, make way for Gaius Fabius Rufus, Lion of the Lucky Fourth! Clear a path!”   
  
Everyone scrambled off of the paved street as Gaius, dressed in full military parade gear, marched down the Sacred Way. His leonine amber-brown eyes remained focused on his destination, the majestic building ahead on the left. Behind him marched over fifty of his veteran followers, their weathered faces hardened by war, their loyalty guaranteed with Dacian gold. Like an army of worker ants, their boots clattered in martial rhythm across the shiny basalt pavers. Carrying tied bundles of rods and axes, eleven strapping bodyguards surrounded him at the head of the procession. Gaius had held the office of consul twice; his proconsular status afforded him all the legal trappings of Rome’s supreme magisterial office, including a gang of brutish lictors charged with protecting him.   
  
Where had Luc’s official bodyguards been on the night he was murdered? He’d served as consul three times in his short thirty-seven years. Had Lucius foolishly dismissed his lictors as unnecessary for a casual stroll to an informal dinner party?   
  
With soldierly determination, Gaius approached the arches of the great Julian basilica; the ancient civic building soared high into the cloudless blue sky. Bright morning sunbeams reflected off its white marble blocks and red-orange terracotta roof tiles as inky shadows filled every archway. Magnificent and sublime, the Basilica of Julius Caesar housed Rome’s famous Court of the Hundred. Today, ten of those inheritance judges would preside over the unsealing of Luc’s will in front of as many people as managed to cram inside the civic hall. Boisterous crowds, frothing with anticipation, jostled as they waited for the guards to permit entrance. A fistfight broke out, soon quelled by a blow from a sentry’s heavy shield. The entire city was anxious for the final spectacle of death. Who would be the heir to Lucius Petronius’s substantial estate?  
  
When Gaius began the short climb up the broad steps to the main entryway, he spotted a group of boys standing huddled together in the shade of a nearby archway. In the center of the forest of spindly lad legs sat two prepubescent urchins. One tossed a handful of knucklebones up into the air over a gaming board incised into the marble step; his companions cheered when he caught four of the playing pieces.  
  
“Who’s winning?” Gaius asked as he removed his polished silver helmet.  
  
“Tiberius, sir. But he’s a cheater,” answered one lad with a scowl, his mop of dirty blond hair hanging down past his nose as he pointed to the smaller of the two players.  
  
“That’s a serious allegation. How do you know he’s playing unfairly, scamp?”  
  
“Because he always cheats. He’s a right trickster. Fast with his hands and all that.”  
  
“Ah, a young Sisyphus in the making, then?” Gaius leaned down and ruffled the dark-haired boy’s locks. “Be mindful of the rules, son. At the end of his life, even the trickster Sisyphus suffered dearly for his clever deceptions. The gods are vengeful, and they’re watching you.”  
  
“The only gods that watch me are my father’s household spirits, and those shitheads are back home in their shrine.” The boy spat back with a smirk, mischief twinkling in his light blue eyes—the same color and shape as Lucius’s eyes.  
  
A dainty hand snaked its way between the boys’ bodies and slapped the young lad across the back of his head. “Tiberius! Watch your language! You’re not some foul-mouthed street dog,” a woman scolded before she withdrew her arm.  
  
By Minerva’s tits, Gaius hadn’t heard that voice in years. And yet there she was, standing beside her husband, Titus Petronius. She turned to Titus and tugged his elbow. “You shouldn’t allow your son to gamble with these low-born rabble. It’s—it’s unseemly.”  
  
“He’s not gambling, darling; they’re playing a game. These common boys could grow up to be soldiers and, if they’re lucky, serve under our son’s command. It’s important for Tiberius to be streetwise and understand the ways of the proletariat. Isn’t that right, Commander Fabius?”  
  
“Don’t drag me into your marital squabbles, Governor Petronius. Antonia, my dear—it’s lovely to see you.”  
  
Antonia pushed away a strawberry-blonde curl that had stuck to the sweat on her flushed cheek. “Greetings, Commander Fabius. We are appreciative that you’re willing to serve as Lucius’s executor. Such a despicable tragedy. Is your wife attending the ceremonies?”  
  
“Alas, no. She’s resting at home. This heat and these crowds are unwise given her condition.”  
  
“Yes, of course. Titus shared the wonderful news. Please do give Marcia my congratulations, won’t you?” Antonia paused and added. “And to you as well. Um, I mean… both of you.”  
  
Like her husband, Antonia struggled to hide her discomfort over Gaius’s intimate friendship with her late brother-in-law. Salacious relations between two Roman men—worse, two aristocratic peers—were unseemly, after all.   
  
“Thank you, Antonia.” Gaius forced a polite grin as he twirled Lucius’s gold signet ring around his finger before gesturing towards the stately door. “The proceedings should begin soon. Shall we go in?”  
  
As they held back the excited mob with their shields and spears, the guards positioned before the enormous bronze door allowed Gaius, Titus, and Antonia passage through the portal. Once inside, the bright sunshine of the Forum gave way to the dim light of the cavernous interior. On the left side of the wide central aisle, ivory chairs for the imperial household sat empty atop a grand dais. In the center of the basilica’s nave, a low platform had been constructed for the ten toga-clad judges who sat chatting like fidgety hens. Rows of folding stools, some empty but most occupied, filled the available space on the first floor. State-owned slaves stood along the walls and fanned the restless crowd with palms leaves, but the hall was still as fucking hot as Hades.   
  
Lucius’s domestic servants were gathered together in the far back corner of the basilica. Resigned to whatever fate awaited him, Bryaxis stared down at the elegant floor, his hands clasped together over his tunic-covered emasculated groin. Beside him stood Euphronia and that freckled kitchen girl, their eyes bloodshot and swollen. Citizens and slaves alike were drenched in sweat, but the proceedings couldn’t begin until the imperial couple arrived in a flourish of colorful fabric and pomp.  
  
While Titus escorted Antonia to her seat beside the weasel widow, Gaius weaved his way through the assembled attendees to the open area in front of the judges’ platform. The other five witnesses were already lined up, shuffling their feet. Pliny appeared to be comforting Luc’s distraught youngest brother, Gallus. Meanwhile, Luc’s client from the Quirinal, Gnaeus Decius, wiped his sopping brow as he spoke to the lawyer, Gellius, and that greasy-haired fart, Asinius. As Gaius drew closer, all five men acknowledged him with courteous nods before stepping aside to make room.   
  
Gaius squeezed Pliny’s shoulder. “Is everyone present, then?”  
  
“All save Titus Petronius. I’d heard that he arrived from Greece, but I haven’t seen him anywhere in the city.”  
  
“Have you seen my…my…my brother, Commander?” Gallus squeaked. Despite his thirty years, Gallus had never managed to overcome his debilitating stutter. “An infantile mind trapped in a grown man’s body,” Luc often lamented. Both Lucius and Titus were fiercely protective of their disadvantaged youngest sibling, even more so after their parents died.   
  
Gaius gently tapped Gallus’s forearm and pointed. “Titus is here, Gallus. See? He’s right over there, tending to Antonia.”  
  
“My brother’s here! Antonia’s here!” Gallus clapped his hands in relief.  
  
Gaius approached the other three men.“Gnaeus Decius, you filthy hog! I haven’t seen you since that auction at your estate. By Asclepius’s snake, you’re pastier than wet plaster, old boy. What ails you?”  
  
Decius threw his hands up in the air and sighed. “My most noble and generous patron is dead. My future livelihood—the destiny of my entire household— is written down in that sealed document. Have pity on me, cruel Fates!” Gnaeus blew his piggy nose into a fold of his toga and glared at Pliny. “But I count my blessings, Commander. At least Counselor Petronius didn’t die on  _my_  doorstep.”  
  
Pliny’s eyes grew wide at the accusation. “Choke on shit-covered grape, Decius. Counselor Petronius was not murdered in my home!”   
  
Gaius draped an arm over each man’s shoulder. “Now, now—let’s not engage in petty plebian bickering on such a solemn occasion.” He pulled Pliny over to the side. “Your insults are quite colorful these days, old friend. Listen, when these proceedings are over, go home and pack your travel bags. I’ll send guards to collect you.”  
  
“Collect me, Gaius?”  
  
“You recall that Emperor Trajan ordered me to leave Rome for the duration of his investigation, yes? I have decided that you will accompany me to Campania and enjoy a relaxing but brief holiday at my villa. No wives, no children. You and I have matters to discuss.”  
  
“I- I…”  
  
Gaius narrowed his eyes. “You’d be wise not to decline my invitation, my dear Pliny. I rarely invite associates to my seaside estate.”  
  
“Yes, sir. It’s a great honor. Your generosity humbles me.”  
  
A few moments later Titus strolled over, hugged his little brother for what seemed an eternity, before facing the other witnesses. “Greetings, gentlemen. My family thanks you all for fulfilling your duty to my late brother.”  
  
Pliny rushed forward and shook Titus’s hand like a guilt-ridden lunatic, refusing to let go. “Warmest greetings to you, our esteemed Governor Petronius. Please accept my condolences for your loss. It’s a grievous tragedy; justice will be served. I do hope your sea journey from Athens was pleasant.”  
  
“Lucius’s death is a great loss for all of Rome.” Titus bit his lower lip. “Despite our swift and uneventful voyage, we made landfall after my brother’s funeral rites were concluded. I pray that my departed brother’s spirit forgives my absence.”  
  
Pliny scratched his chin, unable to muster a quick, thoughtful reply. Just as he opened his mouth, the trumpeters blew their horns to announce the arrival of the emperor. The crowd rose to its feet while Marcus, in the company of the Praetorian Guard, ascended the dais and guided his wife to their chairs in the front row. Publius and Sabina stepped onto the stage and took their seats, followed by other members of the imperial family. Everyone appeared appropriately glum and stern-faced, which seemed comical given that each wore bright, festive attire. No doubt there would be another lavish banquet at the palace tonight. Thank the gods’ balls that he’d be far from Rome on the road to Campania long before the first course was served.  
  
Gaius scanned the faces of the Praetorians. Livianus appeared to be absent, again. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.  
  
_Had they gained access by now? Could Max steal the statuette without incident? What if Aurelia had stationed additional guards to monitor the house during the proceedings?_  
  
He exhaled.  
  
_They were both armed. Varius was a loyal bull and Max a talented thief. They’d be fine. It would work._  
  
Shit.  
  
The emperor banged his bronze scepter on the wooden floor of the dais, and all conversations buzzing throughout the hall quieted to a low hush. Even the mob of rowdy spectators looking down from the second balcony lowered their voices to faint whispers.  
  
The eldest inheritance judge cleared his throat and began. “Our most esteemed and glorious Emperor Trajan, noble Senators, dutiful witnesses, fellow magistrates, priests, and people of Rome. We are here today for the reading of the last testament of Lucius Petronius Celsus, the most illustrious chief counselor of the imperial court, a proud son of Rome viciously cut down in his prime.”  
  
Gallus tried to muffle a guttural sob by coughing into his fist. Titus shuffled closer to comfort him.  
  
The judge continued. “It is time to unseal the testament. Gaius Fabius Rufus, as executor of Lucius Petronius’s estate, can you affirm that all seven sanctioned witnesses are present?”   
  
“All are present.” Gaius replied as he slipped both his signet ring and Luc’s ring off of his fingers.  
  
“Your signet rings, gentlemen.”  
  
One by one, each man stepped forward and climbed the platform stairs to place his ring on the oak table. Gaius carefully laid down his and Luc’s gold bands side by side. After the judges had matched the design on each ring to the emblems stamped in wax, they broke the large red seal and opened the tablets. The court herald stepped forward, and the entire audience took a collective breath of anticipation.   
  
“I, Lucius Petronius Celsus, son of Tiberius Petronius Longus, hereby offer my last will and testament.”  
  
Gaius winced; the herald’s nasal voice was high-pitched and scratchy, completely unlike Luc’s delicious booming bass.   
  
“I have lived an honorable and fortunate life, a life devoted to my family, my emperor, and above all to Rome. Faithful friends have been many; precious loves sweet and everlasting.”  
  
He couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder. Staring straight ahead, Bryaxis sucked in his cheeks as he wiped away streaks of tears. As Gaius turned back to face the judges, agony choked his throat. He bit his tongue to prevent the crushing sorrow drowning his eyes from cascading down his face.   
  
“To my dearest and most beloved Tiberius Petronius Gallus, I offer my declaration of adoration. Juno herself blessed our family on that day you were born, little brother. For all of your life, you have been an honest and compassionate man. To you, my gentle Gallus, I bequeath the sum of 20 million sesterces and my profitable Sabine vineyards. I wish you a healthy and joyous life and only ask that you continue to be both just and noble. Do not listen to detractors, fools, or liars, but be mindful of our brother’s sage advice. Remember my words in times of sorrow and fear. Even in death, I will protect you. Be strong, my kind-hearted Gallus, and honor my memory with generous sacrifices at our family tomb.”  
  
Nodding, Gallus rubbed his eyes and leaned against Titus.  
  
“To my dearest and most valiant Titus Petronius, I offer my declaration of admiration. You are brave, virtuous, and trustworthy. You are the very best of men, and I have been most honored to call you not only my brother but also my faithful friend. Do not be excessively proud in your offices or foolhardy on the battlefield. Cherish your wife and children, and protect our family above all other concerns. Honor me, my courageous Titus, with the proper and regular sacrifices at our family tomb.”  
  
When the herald paused for a sip of water, the vast hall grew eerily quiet as every ear waited for the next words.   
  
~~~~~  
  
**_Lucius Petronius’s house on the Quirinal Hill, Rome_**  
  


 

  
  
He knocked three times and the grand door swung open. Max nodded to the sentry. “Greetings, Calvus, sir.”  
  
“Greetings, friend. You visited this home a few days past with Commander Fabius, yes?” Calvus queried as he motioned him to enter.  
  
“That’s correct. My name is Maximus, freedman and client of Commander Fabius. The commander believes that he may have left his favorite cloak somewhere in this home. He’s asked me to collect it.”  
  
“I haven’t seen your patron’s cloak, but perhaps the steward knows its whereabouts. He should be pruning the roses at this hour.”   
  
“May I speak with him?”  
  
“Of course, but I can’t leave my post, I’m afraid. We’re short on staff, given the proceedings taking place down in the Forum and all. Can you find your way to the peristyle garden alone?”  
  
“I’ll manage. Thank you.” Max nodded one more time and strolled towards the large entrance hall. The house was nearly deserted; only a handful of lamps lit the rooms and corridors. When Max entered the atrium, he pulled out a bundle of red fabric from beneath his cloak and shaped it into a tight pile on the floor behind one of the large columns surrounding the shallow pool. After stepping back to make sure the crimson heap was reasonably well hidden, he surveyed his surroundings. The small altar for the household gods should be close by, nestled in an alcove off of one of these hallways. But which one? During all his visits to this home, Max had never noticed the location of the domestic shrines. Should he try the left hallway first or the one on the right?   
  
This whole mission was fucking mad. Steal Counselor Petronius’s Genius statuette while everyone was attending the ceremonies at the Julian Basilica? Even Varius, who decided he preferred to stand guard out on the street, thought the Commander’s orders preposterous. Thievery was illegal.  
  
Shit, this scheme was worse than criminal—it was fucking sacrilegious. Would the gods curse them?  
  
He rubbed his temples. Years earlier, he’d overheard Euphronia once mention sacrificing honey cakes fresh out of the oven to her master’s protective spirit. Max drew a long breath and entered the barrel-vaulted corridor on the left that lead to the servants’ quarters and the kitchen. He trotted through shadows, the mosaic tile dampening the pitter-patter of his steps. He turned one corner and then another and there it was, a dark rectangular shape in a large semi-circular niche. As he drew closer, the brightly painted altar materialized.   
  
Within its tiny temple stood three bronze statuettes. But there were no traces of a recent fire or a libation or a cereal offering. Counselor Petronius’s spirit had been forgotten and neglected. Max lifted a small ceramic jug sitting on the altar and peered inside; a few drops of thick rancid wine clung to the bottom. After he shook the dregs onto the altar, Max covered his head and recited the traditional prayer for the household deities. Bryaxis would be relieved that Max had fulfilled his duty and honored his late master’s spirit.   
  
The sound of heavy footsteps echoed in the hall behind him. Max snatched the small image of a toga-draped man from the shrine and shoved the Genius statuette under his cloak until it was cradled deep within the folds of his tunic. The metal felt cool and hard against his perspiring skin.  
  
“Who trespasses there?”  
  
Fuck.  
  
Not recognizing the man’s voice, Max backed away from the altar and turned around with both of his palms open. “I am not trespassing. I received permission to enter.”  
  
“Is that right? Wait, I recognize you. You’re Fabius’s Ethiopian slut, aren’t you?”  
  
“My name is Gaius Fabius Maximus, freedman and client of Gaius Fabius Rufus, the executor of Counselor Petronius’s estate.”  
  
“Gaius Fabius Maximus? Oh, that’s a bloody priceless play on names! Who knew Fabius was a fucking punster, the arrogant prick. Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be supporting your witty patron down at the basilica?”  
  
“I’m afraid that I don’t understand the joke, sir. I’m here because Commander Fabius misplaced his cloak during his last visit. He will be leaving the city today and it’s his favorite–a lucky souvenir of the last triumphal parade. Have you seen a red mantle with gold trim?”  
  
“No, I haven’t seen it. I don’t bloody live here, you idiot. I’m guarding the estate at the request of Petronius’s widow. Come, let’s find Fabius’s special cape so that I can wipe my arse with it.”  
  
When the man reached for his elbow Max pulled back. “”Who are you?”  
  
“Tiberius Claudius Livianus, Prefect of the Praetorians. We’ll search for this fancy rag of yours together. I can’t have you wandering about the house alone nicking the poor woman’s silver bowls and cups.”  
  
“I’m not a thief. I’m here on the orders of Commander Fabius.”  
  
Chuckling, Livianus playfully punched Max’s side. “Settle down, lad. This is Rome; everybody’s a fucking thief. Lo, what’s this you’ve got stashed under your tunic?”  
  
Shit.  
  
“Um… It’s, er… my dagger. I carry it for protection. The neighborhoods at the bottom of this hill are dangerous.” Max blabbered on as he withdrew his knife from its scabbard.   
  
While Livianus inspected the blade, the wee Genius statue scampered across the skin of Max’s broad back like some frantic mechanical spider. Resisting the overwhelming urge to scream and swat it, Max gasped when the animated thing finally settled above the small of his back. It swayed back and forth in the fold over his belt like a tiny acrobat in a swing.  
  
“You brought a dagger for protection, hmm? Well, yes—that area of the Quirinal is hazardous, a breeding ground for miscreants.” Livianus returned Max’s weapon to him and marched towards the atrium. “All right, let’s start this quest for Fabius’s missing frock in the assembly hall. Red, you say?”  
  
~~~~~  
  
**_The Julian Basilica, Old Forum, Rome_**  
  


 

  
  
The court herald placed the bronze cup of water on the table and cleared his throat. A child up on the balcony cried out for its mother; an elderly man in the back of the hall fainted from the heat and fell to floor with a thump.  
  
“I, Lucius Petronius Celsus, entrust Titus Petronius—to whom I owe my deepest loyalty for the great affection that he has borne me—to be my heir. I bequeath to Titus Petronius 50 million sesterces, my properties in Latium and Etruria, joint guardianship of my surviving children, the allegiance of my clients and all associates named here within, and all rights to our family estate on the Quirinal.”  
  
The crowd erupted in a raucous chorus of cheers and applause. Aurelia may have impressed the mob with her expensive funeral pageantry, but Titus Petronius was a military hero, a favorite son of the common people.   
  
As Luc’s words rolled off the herald’s tongue, Gaius smiled so broadly his dimples danced. With one hand peeking out from beneath his cloak, he flashed Aurelia an obscene victory gesture. She covered her face and collapsed into uncontrollable tears. Seated beside the hysterical weasel, Antonia gasped and turned away, no doubt grumbling about Gaius’s unseemly behavior.  
  
“To my dearest and most esteemed associate, Gaius Fabius Rufus, I offer my declaration of everlasting affection.”  
  
Gaius took a deep breath. No matter what followed, this was going to hurt.  
  
“You, Gaius Fabius, are the noblest and most loyal man that I have ever been honored to call my friend. Together we stumbled through our youthful studies, shared honest opinions, debated the finer points of viticulture, and fought alongside one another in battle. Be patient and gentle with those who love you, cherish your family, and trust the truth in your heart. To Gaius Fabius Rufus, I leave the contents of my offices and library as well as the obligations of my clients Gnaeus Decius and my estate guards. I trust your integrity above all others. Therefore, I also bequeath to you my devoted personal slaves along with the sum of 500,000 sestertii for their maintenance. Honor me and our memories, Gaius Fabius Rufus, with regular sacrifices and libations at my family tomb.”  
  
Despite Gaius’s best effort, a breath escaped his lips as a soft, mournful moan. It was over. They were over—finally and forever over.  
  
The herald continued to read out loud the remainder of Luc’s will, but Gaius found it difficult to concentrate. Much of the rest of his testimony was formulaic and predictable. Lucius praised his clients for their allegiance and bestowed appropriate sums of money. To his widow, Aurelia, he bequeathed a modest sum for a dowry and joint guardianship of their daughter, Petronia, on the condition that Aurelia prove herself innocent with respect to the circumstances of his death. It ended with generous praise for the emperor and substantial gifts to the imperial family and the people.   
  
Proper duty and all.  
  
Pleased with the testimony, Marcus stood and raised his royal staff. “People of Rome, in honor of our most esteemed Lucius Petronius Celsus, I grant every citizen five baskets of grain and three amphorae of wine. Return to your homes and celebrate the memory of our noble and generous counselor.”  
  
As the whoops and hurrahs subsided, people filed out of the great hall into the sun-drenched streets of the Forum. After bidding farewell to the other witnesses, Gaius approached Luc’s slaves. For better or worse, they were his property now. Wearing thankful smiles, Euphronia and her kitchen girl bowed low and blessed him. Bryaxis remained stoic, his strong jaw set firm, as he dropped to his knees and pressed his forehead to the colorful marble floor. His voice cracked as he addressed his new master. “Dominus.”  
  
Gaius ignored him. “My guards will escort you all back to my home on the Caelian. In three days time, you will accompany my wife to her Alban villa and tend to your new Domina’s needs—all of you, that is, except for you three.”   
  
In unison, the slaves lifted their chins and waited.  
  
“Euphronia, you and your kitchen girl will travel to Campania with my retinue. It’s high time I enjoyed better fare down there. Bring your cooking pots and spices.”  
  
“Yes, Commander Fabius,” Euphronia answered with joy as she wiped her eyes.   
  
Gaius cupped Bry’s jaw and lifted his face to look into his green eyes. “And you will also join me for the journey south, Caledonian. There are mountains of Luc’s papers still waiting for you to examine. When you return to the Caelian, repack all his letters and legal documents and prepare the crates for travel. I’ll decide your future when our investigation is complete. And before you leave the hall, retrieve my signet ring from the inheritance judges. Lucius’s oak ring now belongs to his heir, Govenor Petronius. Do you understand, Bryaxis?”   
  
“Yes, Dominus. I understand...” Bryaxis blinked once, slowly. “Dominus.”   
  
Did Luc’s castrated whore sound more defiant than defeated?  
  
“It’s an arduous trip down to Puteoli; we depart after the midday meal. By the gods, I can already fucking smell the fresh salt air.” Gaius clapped his hands once and took three steps towards the exit before turning around. “And, welcome—all of you—to my family.”  
  
~~~

 **Author's Note:** As I explained in more detail over at my official blog ([jpkenwood.com](http://jpkenwood.com/)), this is the final draft chapter that will be posted from  _ **Games of Rome**_. The finished book, with a prologue, epilogue, and some 60-70K additional words, is scheduled for release in late July/early August. I plan to continue posting non-spoiler snippets of scenes over at my blog until  _ **Games of Rome**_  is published. Thanks for your patience and understanding as I lock myself in my writing cave and finish this part of the Dominus saga. Check my blog on the Ides of May for a special naughty treat from our cover artist, Fiona Fu. :)


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